Bad Wolf
by wasitelves
Summary: 'Sherlock, kill me.'    Pausing, the named turned from the door and faced John. 'What.'    'Please.'
1. Sargeant's log

BAD WOLF

A demented sargeant who was disgraced from Afganistan seeks John Watson for his revenge, and to make him apart of his own army.

Yeeees the title has changed, sorry if this bothers anyone ^^; Carrying on~

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><p><em>It's going to be sensational.<em>

_Everything is going so well, all nice and mapped out. There's this crudely built shack just north of the army base, absolutely perfect. Nobody about since us lads swooped down on the place .. well. I say that. Some dirty little dwellers crawling about during the day but they're not a problem. In fact, they're an advantage. They don't roam far and when night slips by they're easy enough to lure. Nice little bits on the side, those. Check their reflexes, their strengths, but of course I can't be focusing too much on them. Oh no. I have something much more major to be concentrating on._

_The good thing about these shacks? They're cabin thick, and if you put a gag in the sod's mouth he sounds like every other blighter crying for their dinner. Private Bennington. Young lad, not far into his twenties. Started in the USO, finished up with a bullet clean through his hand. You could poke your eye through that. I took him in, sent him off to the doctor's tent in the back of a truck. Or so they think. The whole base thinks he's dead now, all official and listed. Killed on-route by a landmine. But he's doing amazing. Conscious, excellent vitals. A bit too vocal for my liking though - he chewed through the rag the other day, after I was so kind as to bring him some bread rolls from base. Screamed his face off, so I had to smack him down a bit. _

_I can't wait to get the faffing about over with and actually start, and he won't be the first. Oh no. I'll recruit more, and we'll grow as strong as we are numerous. We'll be brilliant. We'll be sensatinal._


	2. Visitors

A rainy gloom hung over London. Not heavy falling rain, but enough to soak a person who was out in it long enough. No wind, just a brisk breeze which made lugging two handfuls of shopping that bit easier. Nothing worse then fighting against gale force, once the plastic bag even split and the new milk went everywhere. If only he hadn't bought that pillow case, he could have gotten a taxi. The bus was an option but it only came hourly at this time of night - standing at a bus stop huddling under a shelter with a handful of old women plus shopping.

'Not exactly labour saving.' John uttered, continuing his thought as he shuffled down the high street. At the end of the day he needed the pillow case - there were only three in the whole flat. One was his, one was Sherlock's and the other was half-stuffed under the washing machine becase it leaked out onto the floor. Often - usually when John was at Sarah's and Sherlock had the advantage of a vacant flat, he would turn the place upside down with his experiments and lose his pillow. Rather than look for it, he would use John's. So, next night, John would lie on it and smell tea and burny things.

Disturbed from his pillowy musings, John could not help but perceive a slight pitter-patter sound coming from behind him. He pretended not to notice at first, but soon became somewhat uneasy. What with the company he entertained, it was easy to attract the wrong sort of people. Without looking, or even blinking, he sped up. But the pattering became faster with him, such small padding steps. Soon, after keeping up this traffic light tactic, his edge became aggitation and he stopped completely.

His shoulders sagged as he sighed, and he turned around, 'Look ... '

Upon seeing no face to confront, the doctor's brows contracted into a frown and his eyes sunk to the pavement. How surprised he was, when he saw a small bulldog pup looking up at him. Tail a-wag.

' .. Oh.'

* * *

><p>Flat 221b was a beehive of disorder, a far cry from the quiet and even pleasant air the good doctor had stepped out of hours before. Every part of Sherlock trembled, so shaken and disordered in himself as he paced the living room. He squeezed his arm in places, riddled with nicotine patches and he held his breath for long intervals, breathing only in short hisses. The air was stuffy, with a musky yet flowery smell about it. Someone had obviously had the air freshener out.<p>

'Hello?' The door was ajar, as per usual, and John shuffled through with the shopping hanging off the crook of each arm. 'Sherlock I ... ' He paused the moment he set eyes on his ruffled friend. 'What's wrong with you?'

'_Ugh_.' The man grunted, settling into an arm chair and massaging his temples. 'Have a good guess.'

'What's that smell?'

Not looking up at him, Sherlock remained silent. Nodding, though not quite understanding, John set the Asda bags down on the small space that was left on the table. The musky smell of the flat was faintly stinking of cigarettes, masked by a cheap fragrance. 'Back in the habit then?'

'What? _No_!' He shot back in all defense. 'No .. we had a visitor, some half an hour ago.'

'Smoker, I take it?'

Sherlock raised his head, 'Serial smoker, twenty years. Wrinkles and ashen appearence were a dead giveaway.'

In the kitchen, John had taken to putting the shopping away while speaking with Sherlock. 'And? Who was he?'

'That isn't imporant. What matters is what he wanted.' Voice starting with genteel, he sat back furthur into his chair and set his fingertips together. Peering off-centre over them. 'He wanted us, John.'

'You mean he wanted _you_.'

'Me means us, I know what I mean. Anyway, what I was trying to say is our visitor has had his nephew go missing recently and he is not interested in police services. Not that I blame him, they would only end up coming to me anyway so it only makes sense to cut out the middle man. He wants us to find his nephew.'

The words hung in the air for a moment before John said anything. 'And?'

'And what?'

'Sounds a bit .. plain, for you.'

Sherlock slowly smirked behind his hands. 'He is not the first.'

Feeling a full-on elaboration in pursuit, John shrank back from the spread-open bags for a moment so he might return to the front door. 'Before we get into what I know is going to be a delightful conversation, I thought I'd let you know we have another visitor.'

'Oh?' The man furrowed his brow, eyes following John across the room.

'Yeah, look.' John briefly disappeared into the corridor, and when he reappeared, Sherlock's smirk lessened into a blank stare. As it appeared, John was holding a bulldog pup, slightly damp from the weather and fur ruffled from where he had been towel-drying him with his jacket. A brief silence fell.

'.. What is that?'

John's answer was hesitant. 'Well I found him.'

'You've let a rodent into our home.' He repeated in almost the same voice.

'Oh for god's sake! He's not a rodent, he's only little.' A frown buried on his brow, and he furthured into the room with the quiet dog in one arm. 'Anyway, it's a lost dog and the humane thing to do is look after it until we find it's owner. I'll stick some posters up tommorow, but until then - _Sherlock_- play nice.'

As John set the pup down, he gave his friend a hard stare before returning to the kitchen. For a moment, Sherlock and the new guest seemed to lock eye contact, just before he shrank furthur back into his seat and uttered another '_Rodent_' under his breath.


	3. Sargeant's log II

_I've hit a snag._

_Bennington was responding so well at first. Observing him was amazing and god, did I observe. I made notes, you see. Of his progress. At first I thought it might've been a good idea to make it so that he could eat or or even just inhale - but then I thought, come on, think man. When I first dragged the lad kicking and screaming into the shack he wasn't about to willingly injest anything I shoved in his face. The gag didn't help either. It took longer, yeah, but in the end I reckoned it'd be easy to inject it. That way I could just knock him out and prick his neck, nice and quick._

_Now he's gone and died on me._

_I need a replacment, and quick while those notes are still fresh. There's this little doctor I've had my eye on since he arrived. Looks nice and stupid, easily lead astray. Probably has a death wish too, being here. Once I'm rid of Bennington, I'll clean up here a bit - scrub the blood off the wood, and get him here somehow. Should be simple._

_Start thinking solider. _


	4. Lost dog

'Oh for_ god's _sake! How am I meant to think?'

Hastening to the window, Sherlock pulled back the curtain and gravely turned his face down, examining the street below. Baker Street had a tendency to be the more laid back of streets, and yet there it was. People gathering, cheering, and being a general nuisance to the peace he needed. Some faded out, fashionable song was droning away from the back of someone's van while a handful of part-tipsy public swayed their arms to it.

He sidelong glared the small bulldog which had made itself home in the armchair, who was offering Sherlock a few low, weak growls. 'You can shut up too.'

All else in the room seemed acutely fantastically still. The faint daylight that managed through misled itself in the sluggish air and he slowly stole his glare back to the window, looked out again, and listened. There was this gap of a silence which ran on for a short minute before John entered the home, a few 'LOST DOG' flyers lying flimsy in his hand.

'There we go, the owner's bound to pop up sooner or later.' He stopped when he passed the dog so to rub his index finger against it's head and coo, '_Isn't he? Yeah_. Good boy.' When there was no answer from Sherlock, the doctor glanced at him only to see his cat-like watch over the street. He waited, then said. 'I take it you've noticed the street party then.'

'Noticed it? I can't bloody miss it.'

John set the flyers down. 'You've fed Gladstone, then?'

Turning sharply from the window, Sherlock stood for a moment to frown, then cock his head. 'And a Gladstone is _what_, exactly?'

'Well, I _uhm_ .. thought we might as well call him something.' He shrugged about, though spoke richly on the surface. ' ... While he's here.'

'Smelling-hound has a nice ring to it.'

'Oh shut it.' John said with bright notes, then moving to meet his mooded friend at the window. Looking down himself, he unconsciously smiled. 'You should give it a go, you know. A bit of fresh air won't kill you.'

Sherlock pushed himself off the wall sloppily and stood for a moment, 'I have no business at one of these ... _streety_ things.'

'Sherlock.' John loomed, engaging him with lowered, more factual tones. 'I know all you can bloody well think about right now is this new case, and thats all well and good. But will you take a look at yourself? Still in your pyjamas at three in the afternoon. Have you even eaten?'

'Eating's boring.'

Sighing, John picked up Sherlock's longcoat that had been hung over an armchair and threw it at him. 'Come on, get dressed and get that on. It'll be a laugh.'


	5. Sargeant's log III

_He escaped. He ... **escaped?**_

_How could I have let him escape? It had been planned so well! Once I lured Watson from where he was at the airfield - not that he can fly one of those, doctor or not he's still a private - I shot him with a tranq. He fell like a rock and I managed to get him to my favourite little makeshift laboratory. The truck wasn't as easy to obtain, I think I said I was going to use it to scout the border or some shit. Anyway I bundled him in and gave him the first dose of his new.. medicene. A neat prick to the neck - he'll need one more of these to get to where Bennington was. Hopefully with better results._

_It looked good - but I hadn't anticipated Watson regaining consciousness so quickly. Happened while I was trying to tie him to the chair - he woke up, had that gormless look about him for a second, then knocked me down before I had the chance to get any knots in. But I'm not stupid, I was all prepared with the door barricaded (you never know if one of the locals might get curious) and that sort of threw him. _

_Then he started in with his bloody moral compass. Watson, you don't know what you're harping on about. You join the army to make a difference, and thats what I want to do. I'm gonna make the difference, and I'm gonna build the winning force. He didn't see, obviously. Like I said, he's stupid and moral. So I went for him with the second syringe - it would have been fine after that, sent him good and drowsy. But, for such a stumpy little bloke he definately packs a punch. We wrestled, he sent me flying, and had the door down with the chair._

_Well I had to get out of there, didn't I? Before Watson came back with his little solider friends. I grabbed whatever notes I could but the formulas, I couldn't save them. We knocked them over during the scuff, but I didn't have time to cry over them. If I was caught, my work would stop._

_All I can think about now is John Watson. The last of my venom is in his blood, he's my last surviving work. Yet incomplete. I need to get him that second dose, but not here, god no. I need to get him out of Afganistan so he's alone. All I have to do .. is wait._

_I'll have my bad wolf. _


	6. Cheap tatt

Bringing his glance down from the skies, Sherlock turned it down onto the cluster of people he and John, with Gladstone in tow, were squeezing through. Local businesses were obviously seeing this as some sort of opportunity, as everywhere he looked he could see trade stands setting up and market traders grabbing whoever they could. With the admirable instinct of an egotist, Sherlock thought he understood so well what passed in his own mind, to the point where he found John's concerns - and his brother's tenfold - aggrivating. But he suffered so much indoors.

The case was still early days and there was little he could work with. The visiting gentleman's nephew was not the first to go missing over the last few weeks and more than anyone Sherlock was convinced they were linked. There was research to do .. people to harass, but John wouldn't let him. The livid paleness of his complexion, the rigid fold of his lip .. all body language that the doctor was used to reading, he needed air. Only in the right disposition, could Sherlock appreciate air.

Did he have any means outside his work? Did he care?

'Do you think Sarah might like this?' John asked out of nowhere, lifting a discoloured bracelet from a market stand.

'If she likes cheap, second-hand tatt, then yes.'

With a wounded look, he set it back down. 'Will you at least _pretend_ you're interested?'

'In what, drinking too early in the day and buying used tea towels?'

'It's supposed to be fun, Sherlock.'

The named replied blandly, 'It's a waste of my time.'

'Right, that's it.' John jostled his arm, turning him and walking him sternly through the crowd. Gladstone padded at his other side on a lead. 'You are_ going_ to think about something else, I don't even care what.'

Not having much motivation to argue, Sherlock sighed. 'Dull.'

'Regardless, you've hit a standstill in the case and are suffering because of it. Until then, you're not sulking in the flat. We can't keep paying for that wall .. '

'Ello lads.'

Both men stopped and turned as a low, familiar voice called for their attentions. Sherlock grunted and glanced away the second he set eyes on the figure, where John politely, if weakly, smiled. 'Oh, Inspector Lestrade.'

Said Inspector was nursing a wad of coned candyfloss, 'It's Geoffrey when I'm not on duty, John.'

He nodded, 'Got someone else in today, then?'

'Yeah. That Inspector Dimmock that's so fond of you.'

In the background, Sherlock tucked his chin into the fold of his scarf and chuckled. John faintly heard him, but did not act on it. A tug on the trouser leg of the Inspector asked his attention, and he glanced down to see Gladstone impishly trying to jump on him. He frowned questionably, and looked at the two.

'Nice dog.'

Quickly, John stooped and caught the pup in his arms. 'Oh, sorry. He's just curious.'

'I didn't know you two had a pet.'

Sherlock sounded, 'We don't.'

'Yeah we .. well, we're just looking after him until his owner turns up.' John spoke while craning his neck away from Gladstone, who was trying to lick his face. He broke into a little laugh. 'Thought we'd bring him out and see whats going on.'

A small grin tugged at Lestrade's lips. The idea was obviously none of Sherlock's, and the idea of him having to go along with it was amusing in itself. 'Ah, well. Maybe you should show him that hypnotist that's so popular down by town centre.'

'Hypnotist?'

'Yeah, proper good.' He used his thumb to wipe away a bit of sly candyfloss from the corner of his mouth. 'I'm here with my niece and well, she's into that sort of thing. When we went over, we saw him hypnotise this bird into thinking she was Freddie Mercury in his prime. Funny stuff, she loved it.'

John turned to Sherlock, 'Hey, maybe thats what you need.'

'Because who doesn't need a little public humiliation ... ' He muttered, still into his scarf.

'No, I mean like .. this guy could _literally_ take your mind off things.'

'Not interested.'

Having made up his mind, the man turned away and stared down at his shoes, brooding some more. John's face clouded an instant, as though discontent - though by now he was used to Sherlock shooting down the majority of his suggestions. Instead of getting into a full blown argument about it, he lightly scratched behind Gladstone's ear. Gladstone now having calmed down and settled himself in John's arms. The conversation between he and Lestrade might have continued, but it was interrupted by the entrance of a young girl - about eight years old. She ran up to Lestrade and hooked her hand into the crook of his elbow, grabbing his attention.

'Uncle Geoffrey, I want some chips!'

Smilingly, Lestrade looked at John. 'This is my niece, Lucy.'

'_Chips_ .. !' She persisted, pulling him more.

Nodding his understandings, John decided to conclude the encounter. 'Right, well. I think you'd best be off Lestra .. um, Geoffrey.'

'Best had. See you around, John.' He looked past him to Sherlock, who looked like he was whimpering to himself. 'And erm, Sherlock. ' With that, the Inspector's niece lead him away into a throng of people. Leaving the unchanged situation behind. John glanced over his shoulder at his friend, and saw his look. The meditative look that revealed a whole existence of bitter deceptions, exhausting struggles, and proudly hidden humiliations.


	7. Ringing out

Following Inspector Lestrade's leave, little else happened. John glanced about the market places and only ended up buying Gladstone a rubber toy - justifying it by saying he was either going to chew that or the couch. There was no getting around Sherlock - not only would he not see the hypnotist, but he downright refused to partake in any activity. Lestrade, it seemed, was not the only one dealing with a child. Sherlock's mind was so evidently set upon the job, that even a friend as influential as John could not dissuade him from it, no matter for how brief a measure. Nothing seemed able to stop him from accompanying the task he had recently begun, getting up his steam and striving determined to finish.

John had dinner early and went to bed, as he had work in the morning. Sherlock, as per usual, did not eat and was determined not to waste his time with sleep - insisting that as it stood, John had wasted enough of his time already. He set up on the couch with his laptop and newspaper clippings, but fell asleep just before three o'clock in the morning.

* * *

><p>At almost nine o'clock, Sherlock was woken by his mobile phone. It chimed away in his jean's pocket that he had yet to change out of. His response came with meditative slowness and he sat up before retrieving the phone. Taking a quick moment to curse his offguard sleep, he pressed the receiving button and answered.<p>

'Sherlock Holmes.'

It was a woman's voice, with the faint murmers of a crowded room behind it. 'Hello, Sherlock. It's Sarah?'

She said it in a question, as thought he didn't remember her. In a cordial voice out of the dusk, he replied, 'Yes, I know. What does he want?'

'What does who want?'

'John. I assume he's run out of credit and is getting you to ring me for something.'

Her tone changed to one of hinted apprehension, 'Is .. John not with _you_?'

'What?'

'Well .. it's just, he hasn't turned up at the surgery this morning. I've tried calling his phone but it's just ringing out.'

Sherlock's face clouded an instant, and there was a heavy pause. 'I'll call you back.'

He hung up immediately and stood, drawing himself erect. 'John?_ John you're late for work_!' He shouted. There was no response. Disillusioned, he steadily left his own part of the flat and stole up the small flight of stairs with gaining enthusiasm. At least, he thought it was enthusiasm. So curiously transfixed and isolated in his character, he tried the door - and found it unlocked. Immediately, Gladstone rushed out and whimpered, clearly not having been let out or fed.

' .. John?' And in this curious yet pleading confrontation his eye fell suddenly on John's bed. From that his gaze flitted, like some wild demented thing's, over the details. The bed was not made and the sheets, as well as the duvet, were practically hanging from the mattress like they had pulled. Dragged.

Sherlock stood still in the doorway, heart standing still in an awful, inarticulate dread of the unknown, as he realised John had been _dragged_ from his bed.


	8. Alive

Two days passed, and John was still missing.

Sherlock had, in the meantime, been deducing his mind out. At this point he knew what had happened - Mrs Hudson had reported a break in that same night. Her kitchen window had been smashed in and the only thing that was missing was the spare set of keys to flat 221b. Whereas there had clearly been a struggle, there were no traces of blood on John's bedroom floor, which only brought a tiny sliver of relief. The intruder wanted him unharmed. Clearly, they had done their research. Sherlock was convinced that the person that had taken John, somehow knew him.

Unfortunately, the only witness Sherlock had was Gladstone. Not that he had much hope of the dog being of any use, but he tried nonetheless. John's ever-present balin jumper was still in the washing basket, and Sherlock had fished it out and stuck it under Gladstone's nose in hurled hopes he might be able to track him. No such luck, the dog was, afterall, still just a puppy.

In all reluctance, Sherlock had confronted Lestrade for assistance - refusing to use the police force as a whole. The Inspector was keen, and agreed to meet at 221b.

'Two days ago, you said?'

Sherlock was on all fours, taking swabs from the surrounding area of John's bed. He did not look at the Inspector when he spoke. 'Yes.'

Folding his arms, Lestrade sighed. 'You know, I might be able to actually _help_ if you'd just let me bring in a few people.'

'I don't need them.'

'For John's sake then! Look, I know you've got this high regard for your pride but you need to think about time.' With the aspect of nerves and effort written all over his face; he knelt beside the stubborn Sherlock and for a moment, observed. The man was obsessed, practically scrubbing the floor with cotton buds. So much do the emotions of the soul influence the body. Speaking in more gentle tones, Lestrade added, 'Sherlock, what if John dies because your too proud to let us help?

'No.'

'What do you mean no?'

Endowed with a darkness, there was a moment of silence before Sherlock replied. ' .. The kidnapper has no intention of harming John.'

'How can you be so sure?'

'_Because_. If they'd have wanted to kill John they would have smashed into our flat and got him then and there but _no_! They made the absolute effort to take our keys from Mrs Hudson - they needed to be_ silent_, they clearly need John for some kind of purpose.' He stare boldly resisted Lestrade. 'They need him _alive_.'

Pinching the bridge of his nose, the Inspector could see he was not about to change Sherlock's mind. 'Well, let's hope they keep him alive long enough for you to find him.'


	9. Sargeant's log IV

_I've got him! By god I'VE GOT HIM!_

_It took some waiting, mind. They scoured a good portion of the areas looking for me, those soliders. They even found what was left of Bennington burning away in some sand tune. I couldn't wait forever though, and the second Watson was in good expose I got him with the sniper riple. Right in the shoulder._

_The idea wasn't to kill him - no, never kill him - but to invalid him bad enough to get sent home. It worked like a goddamn dream, and I followed him right to London. Now, London's a big place and little Johnny's gone and buried himself right in it's core. Using the power of money, I managed to enlist this gypsy-looking bloke who said he was some sort of hypnotist. He'd root himself in this street party that's going on, and keep a sharp lookout for my bad wolf. Would you have it - he saw him! Walking around around with a dog and some tall fella. My little spy kept an eye on him, and found out where he was living. 221b, Baker Street._

_And now, here he is again. Just like back in Afgan. Only this time, I won't be interrupted._


	10. A man possessed

Sherlock had become a man possessed.

A furthur four days went without any sign of John - and, more worringly, no word from the kidnapper. At this point Sherlock had been expecting a randsom or some kind of message, and this late in the game he was beginning to worry that maybe what Lestrade had been trying to tell him might have had some ground. What if this person had no interest in returning John after fulfilling their purposes? The thought had occured, but he had ignored it. He did not want a theory stuck in his mind that ended up with John dead.

Everything had stopped - the case, the shopping, the general tidying of the flat - and it would stay stopped until there was progress. Sincerely Sherlock believed he could find John alone. He did suffer from insomnia, even with his seemingly good constitution, for the week, which proved the poignant insistency of his grief, making his thinking a disease instead of a healthy function. He began performing mechanically, rigidly, like an engine stoked from the outside. He no longer had pleasure or interest in them. The flavour was gone from life; it had become a necessary burden, to be borne as best he could.

Dare he say, he was suffering? That until John was found, his life - along with everything else, would stop?

At least for now, for however brief a time, he was a man again. Physically and mentally sound, doing all he could. The day before, Sherlock spent a good fifty pounds on printing press and had spent the entire night putting up missing person posters. It was a long shot, but better to have something floating around that might come in use. Feeling the effects of his sleep deprivation, Sherlock stopped on the corner of the stairs and put his hand out to the wall, almost dozing off right there. Yet, he felt a presence. Something was different, and when he glanced up, he could see the door of his flat was open a crack. The sight thrilled his blood, and he touched about his pocket, ready to pull a gun if need be.

However when he reached the door, he drew a look of shock. Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw.

'Where've you been all night?' John. Stood by the kettle. Making a cup of tea. 'Sorry, do you want one?'

Something seemed to rise up in Sherlock's throat and choke him. He looked more fully at him - standing as calmly and casually as usual, in his pyjamas and dressing gown. His breath stopped, and for possibly the first time, he did not think.

'Sherlock, you alright?'

'John ... ' He tried to force his voice back into its usual tone, tried even to speak gently, though his heart was beating so wildly at these realisations. As it drew to a close, all sound, the silence that fell pressed upon him like hands that held him down. 'Do I .. what? _John_!'

Adding sugar to his tea, John cooly replied. 'Whats upset you this time? Let's hear it then.'

Sherlock immediately shot back. 'Where have you been?'

'In bed?'

It was so rare to feel this unprepared, 'I spent the whole of last night putting up missing persons ads for you all over London!'

'What did you do that for?' John scoffed.

'Because- !' Sherlock had to stop himself for a moment to breath, and calm down. He was dangerously close to whipping that gun and shooting everything in range. ' ..._ Because_, you disappeared. Almost a week ago.'

Leaning against a counter, John sipped his tea. 'Don't think I did. No.'

'You have no memory of it?'

'Of what, Sherlock? You're confusing me.'

He could have laughed, 'Oh, you're confused?'

'Good god. Sherlock Holmes - confused!' John chuckled into his mug, but before he could take another sip Sherlock had already charged across the room and seized him by the shoulders.

'Don't laugh, John! This is serious, anything could have happened to you and you don't remember it.' Sherlock shook him. '_Try_, John! What did you do yesterday?'

'For god's sake! Really now, stop it.' Yanking himself from his vexed friend's grip, he grew back and quickly ran through what he had to say, not seeing how any of it mattered. 'All I did yesterday, was take some cash out of the bank and give Mrs Hudson our rent. Then I went to bed. That was it.'

'You went straight to bed?'

'Honestly, it's like having a wife ... '

'Answer me!'

'For god's sake yes! I was tired.'

Sherlock was relentless, getting into his face and hitting him with question after question. None of it made sense. 'What time?'

'About .. between ten and half past, I think.'

'No.' He shook his head feverishly. 'I didn't leave here until eleven, and I locked the door. Your bed was empty.'

'I live here too don't I? I've got a key.'

'Explain the empty bed.'

'It wasn't empty, alright? Because I was sleeping in it.'

'No you weren't!'

'Yes I _was_, Sherlock!' They had both raised their voices, Sherlock clearly desperate for a suitable explanation. He had truly been going out of his mind, not that he would admit, and to hear him brush the matter off so cooly was frustrating. John set down his mug, and gave Sherlock a look that infuriated him. A look of pity. 'Now, I've no idea what you're talking about but right now I've got a job to be getting ready for.'

'You can't possibly goto work! You need to be checked, you need to be looked over - anyone could have done anything to you.'

'I'm done having this conversation.'

With that, John left Sherlock, and his tumult of desperate thoughts, alone.


	11. Slow start

Not another word was said between Sherlock and John for the rest of the morning. The regular flow commenced, on John's side anyway. He dressed, fed Gladstone and made toast. Sherlock, meanwhile, shut himself up in his room - still littered with missing person flyers and photographic scopes of the whole street. He sat on the very edge of his bed, staring at the ground and his palms pressed together. The situation was absurd, or rather, what had become of the situation.

He faintly perceived the front door shutting. Without a word, John had left for work.

* * *

><p>The surgery was starting off to a slow day, which gave the young woman stationed at the desk plenty of worry time. Sherlock had been doing a very poor job of keeping Sarah informed, and that sent her nerves all up in a frenzy. Acting and coursing through customs, she made a continual effort to carry on the way she had been. Some peace of mind would have helped, but she did not call Sherlock too often through fear of aggitating him. Or rather, making him more aggitated than he already was.<p>

Sarah glanced up from her paperwork for only a moment, rapping her pen against the desk. In that glance, her expression dropped to one of wide-eyed amazement, ' .. John?'

'Hey,' He had quietly slipped in, and approached her. 'Quiet morning is it?'

'Oh my god!' Without waiting Sarah leant over the counter and desperately hugged him. She smiled, somewhere between laughter and tears. 'Why didn't you ring me, tell me you were alright?'

Somewhat taken aback, John waited until she let go to answer, 'Just because I haven't had a shift since Thursday doesn't mean you need to .. '

'No!' Looking left then right, she lowered her voice. 'Because you've been _missing_, John! Sherlock thought .. '

She stopped when she saw him dramatically roll his eyes, 'Oh not this again,' John groaned, then softened his voice. Lightly, he rubbed the top of her hand in some reassurance. 'Look, I don't know what he's told you but nothing has happened to me. I'm_ fine_. Now.'

Abruptly, he broke into a grin and rubbed his hands together, 'Whose boils am I lancing today?'

With that, John shot past. Struck, Sarah looked on after him well after he shut his office door. She, like Sherlock, was unconvinced. And just as scared.


	12. Good tidings

The next few days were .. strange, to say the least.

Sherlock was left very much against the wall, looking over John every time with uncertainty. On the subject of John, he was downright refusing to believe that he had been missing for nearly a week. He brushed it off every time, and carried on with his regular day. Arguing the point hadn't help, so Sherlock decided that he would throw himself into some observation. He too would behave as though nothing was wrong, all the while piling up any irregularities.

So far, he had noted two things. Firstly, Gladstone. The dog had grown a fierce hatred of John recently, refusing to go anywhere near him and he would bark if he tried to pet him as he used to. It meant that Sherlock was having to do the majority of the dog chores - feeding, bathing, brushing - and he would have been greatly irritated if he wasn't so curious. The second, eating habits. It had come from a night when John was making steaks for dinner, and Sherlock had caught him picking at the raw bits. Never before had Sherlock known John to eat raw meat, and then when it came down to the actual dinner itself John's was barely cooked and bloody.

That, and the fact that John was eating a lot more meat then he used to. It used to be tea and toast for breakfast, now it was a bacon sandwich. Whereas he would normally snack on an apple or something of the sweet variety, he now raided the fridge for meaty leftovers to pick at.

'Your brother's here.' The man himself said, sitting at the kitchen table with his head hung over a newspaper. And his hand in a bag of pork scratchings.

'What?'

'Your brother. I just heard him.'

Sherlock went to the window, and moved the curtain. Peering down, he saw John was right. But, Mycroft had no even knocked at the front door yet. In fact, he was only just getting out of his car. 'He's still in the street. How can you have heard him when he's still in the street.'

'Hmm, dunno.' He answered while chewing, not looking up from the paper.

It was to be a long moment, Sherlock decided. John was far too restive; and his vague responses to him were as meager as they could well be. Evidently the doctor had no intention of appearing to him in a brighter light, just sitting there without a care in the world. This role reveral was strange, normally John was the fretter.

Mycroft's presence was felt not long before he entered the flat, and when he did, via the ajar front door, he smiled warmly at the two men. 'Good afternoon.'

John made some small acknowledging sound, and Sherlock did nothing.

'I dare say you boys are losing your hospitable touch.'

Shortly, the younger Holmes cut him a look from his perch at the window. 'Isn't there a middle class family out there that you could be making redundant?'

'But alas, brother-mine, I bring good tidings.' Mycroft rose furthur into the room and glanced mildly at John, who was thumbing his way through the newspaper still and making practically no connection with the conversation. He produced a hand from behind his back, the other hanging onto a staff-like umbrella as per the norm, and offered Sherlock a thick roll of papers. 'I heard you hit a standstill in your latest case and took the liberty of .. researching, on your behalf.'

Hesitantly, like he was being offered to pet a python, Sherlock took the paper roll but did not look through them. Mycroft added, 'Profiles of the missing people, along with that of the nephew you were asked to investigate. I'm sure you can divulge something from those.'

'Finished?'

Mycroft smiled. 'Almost. You'll be saddened to know I can't stay long.'

'My heart bleeds.'

'I wanted to congratulate you on your new pet, though I must say I never penned you as a dog lover, Sherlock. More of a frog lover, possibly lizard. Something you can dissect.'

Clearly tired of repeating himself, Sherlock said. 'We're just minding it.'

'Right, right. Nonetheless, I brought you this.' Quite elegantly, he removed a whistle - a dog whistle by the looks of it - from his pocket attached to a long, thin chain and gave it to Sherlock. 'Discipline them young I say. Whenever the little chap is naughty, just blow on that and he'll soon stop.'

His brow knitted together, taking a deep breath and speaking with perfect simplicity. 'Yes, thank you for your torture device. Now will you go?'

'As you wish. I'll be seeing you again soon I'm certain, Sherlock.' He rose again, and began walking to the door. 'And John.' There was an interval of silence after Mycroft closed the door, and properly. Sherlock passed a glance over between his hands, from the papers to the whistle, and looked immediately grim faced. Throwing them down on the armchair, he tore across the room in long-legged strides until he was the opposite side of the table from John. Grasping the top of a chair, he bore a stare down on him and spoke to him in a fiercely irritated voice.

'_What_ was all that about?'

Glancing up from his paper, John was the essence of calm. 'What was what about?'

'That! I just had to have a conversation with my brother. An actual _conversation_, John!' The absurdity. 'What made you so quiet all of a sudden? That was the most hospitable I've been to him in _years_!'

'Well he's not my brother, I don't have to entertain him.'

For a moment, Sherlock puzzled over his meaning. His grimness not relaxed, he watched John as he rose up from his chair and rolled up his newspaper. Something about the way he said it seemed so .. cold. Before John left the kitchen, he grabbed another bag of pork scratchings from the counter.


	13. Irregularities

**AN:** Wow! Owowowow thanks_ so_ much to everyone thats been kind enough to stick with the story so far! Honestly I didn't imagine myself finishing it as I didn't think it would get much readership but hell, I guess I have to now XD All my e-kisses to youuuu~

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><p>It was a rainy night in London, the gloomy look of the streets doing nothing to enhance any brightness. Sherlock leapt from the cab and took a moment to assess, standing in the rain which began to make his hair sag and stick the the sides of his face. It had to be night, he had no other chance. In his pocket there was a vile, with a tiny sample of John's blood. It wasn't hard, John was a heavy sleeper so all he needed to do was sneak into his room and prick his arm.<p>

He had been on his way to the lab to run the blood through some tests - enough was enough afterall, John was changing before his very eyes. Only a day previous he caught John taking down the mantelpiece clock claiming the ticking was driving him mad. Sensitive hearing, another .. bonus. Instead, he was stopping off at Sarah Sawyer's flat. It might have been worth something. He continually knocked at her door, not stopping until he heard her approaching. When she did answer, Sherlock barged straight passed her before she had even opened the door fully.

Clutching the sides of her flimsy nightgown, she rolled her eyes and closed the door. 'Come in why don't you.'

'I need to talk to you.'

'Sherlock, its late. And I need to be at the clinic early tommorow ... '

He interrupted, 'I need to know if you've noticed anything.'

Admittedly, Sherlock had been expecting her to dance around the question. But, she surprised him. Her whole air changed to one of upset dignity and she crossed her arms. Hanging in the moment and not looking at him until she absolutely had to speak. 'You're talking about John.'

'Yes.' He saw her shift uncomfortably and look away, to which he swapped his tone for one more assertive. And infinately more desperate. 'Sarah, something isn't right with him - I know it and you know it too, don't you? It must .. _must_ ... relate to his disappearance which he's in complete denail over. Have you noticed anything, irregularities in his behaviour ... ?'

'Actually ... '

The woman seemed lost in perplexing thought. There was a look of irresolution on her face as if she were listening to two contending voices. Hesitantly, she turned her back on Sherlock and, ever so gingerly, slid the gown a considerable amount down her shoulders. Exposing her back, and the angry looking scratches on it.

Sherlock stepped closer, staring intently at the marks. They looked like they had been dragged down the length of her back. 'He did this to you?'

' .. I was, making us a meal when he just, sort of caught me and kissed me. At first I thought it was so romantic, but he got so rough .. his nails ... '

'John barely has nails, he bites them down to the base. Nervous habit. '

Sarah glanced at him over her shoulder, 'Well?'

'Well,_ these_. May I?' He did not touch her back until she nodded her permission, and when he did he removed his glove. Running the tips of his fingers ever so gently down the marked surface of her skin. 'These .. they look almost like they were made by ... claws.'

Hearing this clearly upset Sarah, as she immediately shrugged her gown back up onto her shoulders and hurriedly went to tie it up, head hung and choking back sobs. Sherlock had a great look of revelation about him, and turned to dash out.

'I have to go.' Though just before he made it to the door, some pang of conscience struck him and he turned for a final look at Sarah. Clearly she was suffering through this just as much as he was, and cared about what would happen to John if this behaviour continued. Sherlock's tone sunk to one of sympathy. 'Look, you should put some ointment on those scratches. Avoid hot baths.'

Misty eyed, all Sarah said was: 'Help him. Please.'


	14. Silver

A remarkable discovery had been made, one that lead to a horrifying potential.

Dealing through an awful sensation that had been with him since leaving the lab, Sherlock waited before entering the flat. Frozen at the door, and chilled through. John had been changed, that was for sure. The proof was in the blood. To compare, Sherlock had drawn some of his own blood by pricking his thumb, and set it alongside John's, staring down on them with the microscope. What he had seen, shocked him. And thoughts of the future haunted Sherlock the whole way home.

A liberal spirit and manner charged him all of a sudden, if he was to save John then the first step was to talk sense into him. Taking a slow breath, Sherlock pushed the flat door open. Immediately, he was confronted with a scene. A bowl was turned upside down on the floor, with its contents - a stew, by the looks - emptied out on the carpet, with John lying next to it. He had fallen from the couch and was breathing heavily.

Sherlock rushed in, his coat flying behind him. 'What? What happened?'

'Oh calm down, will you.' John snapped, in that new angered attitude. He shakily raised himself and sat up. 'I was just having tea and fell over, thats all.'

'You didn't fall over _sat down_.' Already Sherlock had spotted the culprit for John's sudden collapse from the couch. He stooped as John got back onto the couch, and gingerly picked up the spoon he had been eating his stew with.

Horrified, Sherlock stared from the spoon to John. 'A spoon. You'd been eating with a spoon.'

'Yes, so?'

'John, it's _silver_! You must never come into contact with silver!' He stared down John, speaking rapidly.

'What? _Why_?'

'_Because it will kill you_!'

A despairing silence sat between the two for a moment, John frowning deeply at Sherlock, and then scoffing like it was ridiculous. 'A spoon will kill me? Come on.'

'Not the spoon John, the _silver_! You were fine before holding the spoon, and as you continued to hold it you got _weaker_ and _weaker_ until you collapsed from the couch. I dare say you'd be dead now if you hadn't dropped it.'

'What exactly are you trying to say, Sherlock?'

Sherlock furrowed his brow as though he had to think about it deeply himself. Finally, he replied. 'Lycanthropy.'

'Lycan-_what_?'

'More commonly known as the werewolf curse.'

Another silence, and John looked at him, almost sinking in expression. His face hardened, becoming cold. 'Now your just being ridiculous.'

A determination seared in Sherlock, 'I ran a blood test.'

'You did what?'

'Its all to do with DNA structure. Somehow, when you disappeared someone combined your DNA with that of an animal - in this case being, a wolf. They're slowly merging into each other, but won't combine fully until you become exposed to a full moon.'

John's face flushed with colour, he became enraged. '_For christ's sake I didn't disappear! I thought we'd settled this_!'

'We don't have time to argue, John! Your molecules are mutating at a rapid rate. If we don't get you to a lab and find a _cure_ ... '

'_I'm not going to any lab - you're insane_!'

Hearing this, Sherlock found no scruple in mentioning the cruel conduct he would have to abide by. In a moment rendered scarcely aggitated, he dipped his hand in his coat pocket and withdrew the whistle Mycroft had given him. He blew hard on it, and John instantly cried out, slamming his hands over his ears. The shrill screech of it was torture on his ears. Sherlock, meanwhile, heard not a thing.

'What the _hell_ is that?' John wailed, still cowering from the ringing in his ears.

Lingering in the moment, Sherlock's point was to make an example. He dangled the whistle infront of John. 'It's a _dog_ whistle! Made deliberately to create a sound too high for a human to hear, and you heard it in full effect!' He threw the whistle aside. '_A werewolf trait, John_!'

'Right, thats _it_!'

Sharply, John turned his back and went to grab his coat. Sherlock jumped into urgency, 'What are you doing?'

'I have to get away from you and your rubbish. I'm going out.'

Through cold and extreme agitation of his mind, Sherlock leapt in the way of the front door and put his hands out to stop him. 'John Hamish Watson, you listen to me right now because I will _not_ be saying this again. I have never in my life ... _connected_ with anyone the way I connect with you. You've helped me, supported me and above all, befriended me. I can't say your not _incredibly_ aggrivating sometimes - you half-think, you're moral to a fault and you do that thing with your fingernails. But I would not change anything about you. Someone has though .. someone's_ changed_you and you're not .. ' He paused, hands falling to his sides. 'Your not my John anymore.'

Sinking into an almost neutral expression, John stared back at him to the point where it looked like he might have considered staying. But at the very last moment, he pushed passed Sherlock with a bitter, 'Fuck off.'


	15. The lunar cycle

An hour passed, and the moment John left Sherlock had jumped on the laptop. Everything he had said ran through his head at rapid speed, the most prominent being a cure. Never having dealt with the likes, he had no idea how he was going to go about it. The discovery in the blood was just a start, and he needed to know just how much time he had. Once again, he was having to research the solar system down to his lack of knowledge thereof. He needed to know exactly the fundamentals of the lunar cycle.

So as to predict when John's DNA would finally fuse with the wolf's.

From what he had pulled together through the vast library of the internet, Sherlock had broke the cycle down to roughly thirty days. If John was at his most aggressive now, that meant the half moon had already passed and they were dangerously close to the full moon. Mere days - he realised, looking up from the laptop screen. Numbed, just by the gravity of the situation. John was still ignorant, and here Sherlock was, hard at working saving him.

His phone suddenly rang in his pocket, and he blinked out of his state to answer. He cleared his throat, 'Sherlock Holmes.'

The voice was a breathless utterance, and eerily familiar. _'Oh god, Sherlock ..'_

'John?'

It choked on weak sobs. _'H-Help me ... '_

'John where are you, whats happened?'

_'I .. I think I've killed Sarah.' _


	16. A prayer

**AN:** Guys guys, important stuff! I've been updating like crazy to make up for the fact that I'm going camping (guh) until possibly the 3rd May. I'll have scraps of internet and will try and get on often to get this thing going, but updates will be slower then they have been this last week. In the meantime, enjoy the three chapters I've slung up (:

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><p>John found himself sinking, his back sliding down the wall until he was slumped on the floor.<p>

Horrorstruck, he clutched himself while staring at Sarah - lifeless and sprawled wildly on the laminated floor, her blood not just pooled around her either. It was smattered on the furniture, up the white walls, and smeared around John's mouth. He could taste it, awful and metallic. But at the same time, it was taking every ounce of his willpower to keep himself from taking another bite out of her.

Shivering even though he was not cold, he felt deprived. There was a strong, uneasy apprehension within hiselfm - Sherlock was right. Though he couldn't remember or account for a thing - Sherlock was right all this time. That was why, rather than call the police, he called him. Right away his friend had told him to stay where he was and that he was getting a cab over. He arrived at Sarah's apartment well within twenty minutes of the call, which had left John plenty of time to think. And fret.

'I want to know exactly what happened.' Sherlock was the first to speak, standing over Sarah.

Remaining against the wall, John weakly answered. 'I .. I savaged her.'

'I can see that. What did she do to provoke you?'

'She was .. she was just, doing what you were doing. Asking questions and telling me there was something wrong with me ... ' A tear of guilt trembled in his eye for the fate of the poor girl. '_Oh god I'm so sorry Sarah_... '

'We need to get rid of the body. Burning it is probably our best option.' Sherlock said dispassionately.

'It? _It_ was my girlfriend, Sherlock. And I've killed her!' Rising up from the floor, he swiped his hand over his mouth and thrust his blood smeared fingers at the man. 'I tried to _eat_ her look! And you're going to try and _help me get away with this_?'

'Don't you dare accuse me of not caring.' Sherlock retorted. 'You only started caring an hour ago, I've been caring for nearly two weeks - and yes. I can't have you going to prison before I've cured you. I'm safe in assuming you _believe_me now, yes?'

Marked by a numb, grey disposition, John uttered while staring at his bloodied hand. 'So thats it then, I really am a .. _a_... '

'Werewolf, yes. And I wouldn't get too close to the body if I were you, the smell of her flesh must be driving you mad already.'

He had a point, and obediently John slid back and watched Sherlock kneel over Sarah, moving bits of her hair and examining the garish, gaping chunk torn out of the curve of her neck. 'Y-You said something about a cure.'

'A cure, yes. I hope so.'

'_You hope so_?'

Sherlock looked up from his examining, 'Well be fair, John. I've never had to deal with a Lycanthropy case before, but if there is a cure I'm going to have to find it and find it quickly. Like I said earlier, there is little time.'

John's breath had become very shallow, his heart pounding at these new revelations. He nearly didn't dare to ask, 'Little time. Little time before what .. ?'

Gravely, Sherlock got to his feet. At first he avoided eye contact, like he was intimidating by the thought of saying it out loud. These were frightening realisations, even for Sherlock Holmes. 'Its been almost twenty six days since the last transition of the lunar cycle .. '

'Thats .. the moon.' John uttered midway, relying on the wall to keep him upright.

' .. Yes, and - according to the internet - this gives us four days before the cycle transitions again. Four days before the next full moon.'

'Yeah but what does it _mean_?' He pushed desperately.

'It means .. ' Sherlock paused, clearly delivering with difficulty. 'It means, that when you are exposed to the moonlight the DNA of you and the wolf will fuse together and mutate, very quickly. John, if I don't cure you before then .. you will be permanently transformed.'

It did nothing to alleviate John's suffering, and, in wide-eyed horror, he covered his mouth with the thought that he was going to choke. He sank to his knees, his head bowing. Admitting his own emotion, Sherlock's eyes joined his mind onto his struck friend and his humanity took him to his side, kneeling and, shakingly, placing a hand on his shoulder. He dare not even hint it to himself, but he, with John, was living this hurt.

'We need to make a move while noone is around. If we take her to Epping forest, we can cremate her at the riverside.' Sherlock said, gently. 'We'll say a prayer for her, if you like.'

With dripping eyes, John glanced at Sherlock and slowly, sadly, nodded.


	17. What if

They took no part in conversation, which was deliciously ironic considering the things that could have been said. But it was fine, the day was young. Sherlock was stationed cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by text books, chemical cups and all sorts of technology, courtesy of Bart's morgue - or rather the timid attendant, Molly. Meanwhile John, who had grown frighteningly pale, sat near on the sofa, his fist to his mouth.

The mood lasted, and was still upon them as he glanced to the bulldog pup, who was cowering under an armchair and growling whenever John so much as moved. Quietly, he said. 'Gladstone knows.' He cast his eyes to the floor, looking everything he could be under the circumstances. Feeling rather degraded, as well as shellshocked, John sank furthur into the sofa and frowned, a quick shadow passing over his still features, for the moment entirely changing his expression. He looked at the busied Sherlock, who was adjusting a microscope lense.

'Sherlock?'

The man made a small acknowleding sound.

'Are you scared?'

The last resource of a person who finds himself nervous, Sherlock glanced up from the scope. 'Are _you_?'

John spoke with contradicting calm. 'I'm slowly turning into a blood hungry monster - I'm terrified.'

'Quite rightly.'

There was a brief silence, that wore a grave, not to say solemn, air. The spot chosen for the burning of Sarah's body had been on a river bank, as Sherlock said, hidden with plenty of shrubbery and trees. John had taken a final look at her before commencing, and by God, had he battered her. Multiple dents and cuts, not to mention the enormous gaping bite that was already stationed there - it had made him wretch. Still, as promised, they had whispered a short prayer. Before watching her go up in smoke.

Their eyes met, clearly on the same thought. John spoke it first, 'Sherlock .. what if I kill _you_?'

He pursed his lips, 'Hoping you won't.'

'No, I mean it. What if .. I mean, I went for Sarah just for rubbing me up the wrong way. Who's to say it won't happen again?'

'John.' Sherlock spoke addressively, in a way that was almost patronizing. 'I am perfectly aware of how dire the situation is, and, while I sympathise, you are _continuing_ to distract me from helping you by going on about your anxieties. Now I suggest you vent them another way.' He said. 'Not something I'd put on the blog though.'

'You'd think.' Then after a few moments of engaging hesitation, as John pressed his lips hard together unsure of what to do with himself. Just along from him on the couch was that same roll of papers Mycroft had delivered days earlier, and though John had not been actively involved in the coversation, he had heard enough to know they were character profiles of the missing persons. That case having come to a complete standstill.

Through some curious sense, John began to flick through them. And as he did, his eyes began to widen. Self-possessed into reading, apparently showing that no power on earth, gentle or strong, should wrest his awareness from him. He stood, clutching the papers and mouthing disbelieving exclaimations to himself. Sherlock had noticed.

'What is it?'

'_My god_ ... ' John looked up from the profiles, but not at Sherlock. His voice slow and distant. 'Sherlock, I .. I think I know who's done this to me.'


	18. Starling

Now the weight of this discovery created a fresh angle. Minds that have the habit of imaginative contemplation and poetic dreaming attribute to all sorts of things, they could make whatever they wanted. Even monsters. Sherlock and John stared together at note upon note pinned to the living room wall and, circled in red many times, was the profile of a '_Sgt. Leonard Starling_'. He had been amoungst Mycroft's missing person finds.

Sherlock rested the tip of his long finger on the photo. 'I want to know everything you know about this man.'

John nodded, 'He was in Afganistan, I'd never really spoken to him. Noone did. He sort of, liked to keep to himself.' He found himself staring at the photo himself in some reflection, his brow frowned. 'And one day he just sort of, ambushed me. Before I know even know whats going on I'm tied to a chair in some muddy shack. It's him, Sherlock. I _know_ it is.'

'He's tried this before?'

Another nod, but more grave. 'Not just me. He'd tried it on another, but they'd died.'

'And you were simply filling his boots.' Sherlock concluded in lowered tones. He moved his finger to another document, and then to another, and another. 'Observe, John. Do you see?'

His eyes followed Sherlock's finger, 'The .. missing people?'

'Yes, but look. What do these people have in common?'

'They're all male?' John answered, still speaking in undertone.

'Yes! All male, all fairly young and here.' He rapped his finger furiously against one photo. 'The sepia tones have washed it out but its obvious this man is blue eyed and light haired, as is this one, and the next. It's a telltale sign, John - all these men look like _you_.'

'What does that mean?'

'It means that you're a target, he specifically sought you. From memory he vaguely remembered what you looked like so went after people with your physical characteristics, working his way through London until he got to you. It took eight.'

John became silent, feeling a sudden chill distrust in himself. That former fear of the unknown, experienced in the past, now took possession of him. The conversation with Sherlock forced him to think; and his friend continued to speak to him, waving his hand about the noted wall.

'Sargeant Starling wants to finish what he started, John.'


	19. A final log

_They're clever sods, aren't they?_

_I couldn't be more proud of my little wolverine, barely a fortnight and he's already made his first kill! Not just anyone, ho-no, some bitch he thinks he cared about. I was there too, sort of. In a hiding-outside-and-looking-in-occasionally-with-binoculars way - hell, I've got to keep progress on him, don't I? They're like children, you got to keep your eye on them if you want them turning out a certain way. I've not left him alone since I let him go._

_There's one snag though - that lanky shit he hangs around with._

_He's got his mind set on some kind of cure, and I'll be damned if he's going to find one. Not that its even possible, mind. It's worked into John Watson's biology now, and theres only one way of stopping it. I can't let that happen, not when we're so close. I want to see my bad wolf in full bloom, and the moon I need is only two days wait. So I've nested myself nice and snug in their little flat, waiting for them to get home._

_Mind you, that dog of theirs doesn't think too much of me. Hasn't stopped barking since I got here._

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><p>This was untterably sensitive, like treading barefoot through broken glass. Sherlock and John walked alongside each other on the pavement - one thumbing furiously through a compendium of notes and the other tugging his hood furthur around his face. An unwonted sense of paranoia filled John's body, while his mind was in its strangest vein. His thoughts mingled with beast's, and every interaction had become a risk.<p>

For example, that morning Mrs Hudson had come by and collected the rent - despite John's falsed memories claiming he had already done it. When she brushed passed him to leave, Sherlock had had to grab the back of his jumper and yank him back to stop him lunging at her with teeth bared.

Sherlock sidelong cut John a look. It was a warm night, and despite this, John had covered himself as much as possible. Wearing a hooded top and pulling it right up, covering his hands with gloves and keeping his face turned down whenever possible. The man was clearly hiding himself from the moonlight. 'You don't have to do that tonight.'

Still tugging the hoodie, John replied. 'I'm not taking any chances.'

The pressure of finding something to remedy this was gradually creeping up on Sherlock. Add that to the fact that he was barely getting anywhere, and it left him fatigued. A drowsiness crept over him, dulling a little the thin edge of fear that probed his consciousness. Time was becoming less, and John was becoming more were.

'What do you think happened to the others?' John turned his head a little.

'Dead, probably.' Sherlock answered dryly while he retrieved the flat key from his pocket, knowing immediately he was talking about Starling's other victims. Normally John would hang on to the key, that being before silver had become a problem. 'Either that or he has a basement full of ravenous weredogs.'

'That isn't funny.'

'It wasn't meant to be.'

Slinging the correct key forward, he turned it and with a short click, the door to Flat 221B opened. Both rose into the corridor, and instantly paused when they faintly heard what sounded like mad barking coming from Sherlock's part of the flat. He looked uncertain, taking a moment longer to diagnose the situation but John, puzzled and annoyed, paused to regain his breath and his temper and charged forward.

'John wait-!'

He sighed, loudly and irritably when the doctor downright ignored him and allowed his enhanced anger to get the better of him. The dog wasn't going to bark at just anything and they needed to assess, but there was no time for that now. Out of nowhere a mad lust, and a strange glint of yellow, had come into John's eyes as he took up the stairs at an alarming speed - normally keeping behind the long legged Sherlock. He burst into the flat, and there was an interval of silence.

From time to time, that returning wind shook the window panes and bore fitfully with it the distant roar of London and the rumbling of distant weather. Shadows were gathering thickly in the corners of the room and in the folds of the furniture, here and there, and a figure was to be eyeing him with evil thought. Strick infinitely weary, the doctor shrank back. The blue fading back into his eyes.

'Hello, my bad wolf.'

He sat leaning back, arms along the side of the chair and his eyes - cold and colourless, brightly fixed upon John. There were two items on his lap, a rifle and an electronic stun gun. Struck too dumb, John did not even notice them until he raised one and blasted a shot clear over his shoulder, striking Sherlock who had been approaching up the stairs. He turned in wide-eyed horror, just in time to see his friend's arms fly up and his body collapse onto the steps.

'Sherlock! _Sherlock no_!'

Practically applauding, the visitor said. 'Oh relax, Watson. He's not dead, it's just a tranq. I'm going to need something with a little more zest to take you down though.'

Becoming so uncontrollably enraged with an odd experience to John, he faintly percieved, as his fists drew a clutch and his forehead broke a sweat. 'Starling_ I'll kill you_!' He glowered, in an automatic and fierce voice. His fingers released in a claw-like stance, but before he had the chance to even move, the man raised the stun gun and shot two tiny shots to his neck.

'_Gahh_!' John released a shrill cry, feeling a painful surge shoot through his whole head. It sent him dizzy and for a moment, he bore it long enough to try and rip the shots out. Something else preoccupied him though, and he stared hatefully with gritted teeth at the named sargeant until at last, he passed out on the floor.

'Yeah.' Starling smirked, gently setting the gun down. 'I had a feeling you'd say that.'


	20. Powerless

Sherlock's lips parted and drew out a shallow breath, amidst the brief muddle state the tranquilizer had left his head in. Eyes half-opening, he silently groaned.

It appeared he was observing the room at range, peering out, narroweyed expectantly, and craning his long neck to keep a constant eye. He held the knowledge that he had been drugged by the newly unveiled Leonard Starling, and the belief that the former sargeant had taken himself and John to some secret location. His thoughts began to eerily pace as he realised that - not only could he barely move his neck, but he could barely move at all. On top of that, it appeared that Starling had not moved them from the flat. They were still at 221b, and he and John were locked in tense conversation.

' .. And I'm sorry I had to shock you down like that, doctor. You're temper being how it is, I knew you'd try to kill me straight off.'

'Still would if I could.'

Assessing, Sherlock determined that John had also been attacked in a similar manner but had woken before him. Also, he realised he could not talk beyond small murmers. If I could. That phrase stuck in Sherlock's mind - why couldn't John kill Starling, _right_ now? Critically, his stare darted in all directions and picked at his position. His vision was clouded, but from telltale signs and shapes he could see that - John was stood, looking down at Starling who was sitting on the living room floor. With Sherlock propped up against him - legs straight and body limp, like a lifeless puppet. He had a handful of Sherlock's hair, and was using it to make his head lean back.

Starling exclaimed, 'Oh look who's awake!'

It was then Sherlock realised, he was a hostage.

In a darker tone, he added. 'Now, to business.' He tilted his own head, uttering in Sherlock's ear. 'The good doctor and I have been having a little chat, while you were sleeping. By the way, don't bother trying to wriggle about. You've had a good dose of the sleepy stuff, you'll be weak as a kitten for about an hour.'

Staring fixedly at his tormentor, John remained tight lipped. Starling continued, speaking more sternly. 'I understand you've been looking into a Lycathropy cure. You're wanting to undo my hard work, take away my first functioning recruit. _Tut-tut_.' A smirk spread across his face. 'Well, it stops now. I've already trashed the little lab you had going in your kitchen, now I want his notes.' His grip tightened on Sherlock's hair. 'Where are you hiding them, Sherls?'

Sherlock jaggedly shook his head, '_No_.'

'Sherlock,' John softly pleaded, closing his eyes in the weight of the moment. 'Please. Just tell him.'

Then came a quick review before the glass, hearing it all in spite of John treating the situation with such selflessness. His mortal life was in danger, and still John insisted on putting Sherlock's life before it. This would not get a moment's peace, Sherlock knew, as he drew in his lips and stared fixedly at John; looking affectedly decided. Whether or not John had any kind of plan, though.

He weakly raised a finger, ' .. _C ... Cabinet_.'

'Get them.' Starling barked at John. He obeyed, and stiffly handed them to him.

'You unbelievable bastard.'

'Oh _shut it_, Watson. That was just one way of curing your wolf, not that you're going to get round to the other.' A smile that was rendered mysterious from the rest of his face, he focused again on the weakened Sherlock. ''That being said though, your friend was very clever to get as far as he did. He could be brilliant, you know. Be the whole brains behind the operation - what do you think, doctor? Should we make him part of the pack?'

Starling was hovering dangerously close to Sherlock's neck, teeth snarled.

'Don't you dare.'

The man rose the sharp edge of his eyebrow jestingly, for he had fallen into quite familiar jesting now. Perhaps unwisely. Still, he leaned away from Sherlock and shrugged the suggestion off. 'Oh well, shame. Still, I suppose I should honour my word. Tell him, Watson. Tell him what we agreed while he was having a snooze.'

Hesitantly, John did not look at Sherlock when he answered. 'He was going to kill you, but .. I said I'd go with him.'

'Thats right - I'm not to harm a single hair on your pretty little head. As long as your pet here does as I say.'

The only physically active part of Sherlock - his eyes, sharp like the edge of a diamond - immediately shot to John, suddenly self possessed into sitting up. He couldn't, unfortunately, and crashed back against Starling after staggering onto his elbows. 'No .. no!' He slurred. '_Tonight_... '

The last word clearly pleased Starling, he brightly looked up at John. 'Yes, what is happening tonight, Watson?' John was already silently suffering at the thought, eyes shut. The man answered for him, slowly savouring it. '_A full moon_.'

In a concluding way, Starling yanked Sherlock's head back - forcing him to look up at John. 'Take a good look, Sherls. It's the last time you'll see him.' He finished in undertone. 'Human, that is.'

With that, the tormentor got up and left Sherlock to writhe his weakened body in protest. And so John did follow, head down and carrying the torment so gently that no one would have suspected any deeper elements of pain beneath the smooth surface. He turned a final time when Sherlock cried out a croaky, '_J-John!_'

'I'm so sorry.'

After a deep moment's silence, John left. And Sherlock, struggling to even raise himself, was powerless to stop him.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> Underlying reference to Sherlock pilot? Oh yes ^^


	21. An army

It took about an hour for the traq shot to wear off, just as Starling had said.

The moment he could stand, Sherlock was out the front door like a shot. There were two thoughts weighing on his mind - the location that Starling had took John, and how much time he had. Feeling a chill run up his back as soon he fell out into the street, he subsequently shivered. It was one cold afternoon in the latter end of March - the season giving him a fraction more time, as the moon would rise later. He felt his shoulders shivering beneath his coat as he slowly circled on the spot, observing every high window and brick and crease in the pavement, as he went over keywords in the conversation between Starling and John.

_'Oh shut it, Watson. That was just **one** way of curing your wolf, not that you're going to get round to the **other**.' _

_'Be the whole brains behind the **operation**.'_

_'Should we make him part of the **pack**?'_

Standing still as people passed him, Sherlock seemed for a moment to suspend his faculties, gathering his conclusions together and in his own mind he was transfixed. Looking billowy eyed at the concrete pavement, he gathered that Starling's plan was so much bigger then just one man. As John had told him, he had begun his experimenting in Afganistan and his only working results must have come from John, which was why he was so set upon him - that, plus vengence for ruining his makeshift lab.

Starling had given away that there was another cure, and though indirect, he had also given away it was not chemical. It was something to do with Starling himself - why else would he take such measures to take Sherlock's notes?

Operation. Starling intended to take John and observe the final stage of his experiment - the transformation. Such were the dreadful images that haunted his gripped mind, but his boldness increased as his realising plan came together. The mention of a pack meant there either was another wolf in the making, or there would be. It was then Sherlock saw, the demented man meant to create something the British army couldn't. An untouchable force - blood hungry and completely unstoppable . An army of bad wolves.

And the location? Starling was a military man, and to an unhealthy extent. Clearly he would go for the abandoned REME army base in the outskirts of Northwood.

Sherlock's arm shot out, 'Taxi!'


	22. Calm

'_Feeling angry yet, Doctor Watson_?'

Another crack, another wince of pain. But just as long as he kept calm, and kept meditating. Consciousness, like the gradual light of dawn, had been flooding that other part of John's brain. And the face that now confronted him, though with his feeble silence he would only very obscurely discern it, was vigilant and keen, in every sharp-cut hungry feature. Still, he refused to say anything that would incriminate him.

Starling was hard set on incriminating him. Enough to tie him to a chair and torture him, so far having endured four whips across the back and a few punched to the face. It hadn't took John long to realise just what he was doing - the man was trying to make him angry.

Tempt the wolf.

His whip dragged along the floor as he circled John, like a vulture. 'What about hungry? You _must _be hungry!'

Adjusting his slackened jaw with a deep breath, John stared hard at Starling but still, would not speak. And his near neautral facial expression frustrated Starling, and to relieve it he lay another _thwack_ into John's back. It cut through his cardigan, now blood patched, and made him cry out. It was the only sound that he would let come out of him. Just keep calm, don't get angry.

'But don't worry, I'll feed you up. Good and proper.' Starling said through bared teeth, stooping to John's level and squaring his face with his. 'Because I know, and you know too don't you? That friend of yours, he should be showing up pretty damn soon. For a moody smartarse he's as stupid as you when it comes to this loyalty bullshit. Don't think I haven't noticed after all this time.'

Sitting motionless, listening; hearing the faraway murmers of nearby Northwood, John remained silent.

Starling continued, with a delicious rapture to his voice. 'Ahh, that's right. It wasn't some sand dweller that shot you in the wars, ol' boy. It was me. Oh yes - once in the shoulder with a good old sniper! Don't you go giving me that hard look, Watson. I had to get you out of Afgan somehow, and you know what? I've been keeping my eye on you ever since. You should've kept the limp, I think. Suited you.'

A cold, indefinite sensation stole over John and, just like that, it broke off. His attitude intensified in its stillness. Calm. _Calm_.

'It must be weird, though. Not remembering what happened to you, don't suppose you'd thought to check yourself for scars either.' Starling said. 'Might as well tell you now, while I can talk to you like this. All nice and relaxed _ay_?' With an awful laugh, he raised his hand and hit John hard across the face. He gritted his blood-stained teeth against it.

'I took you, dead in the night it was as easy as that. You put up a hell of a fight though. Don't suppose you take kindly to being woken up. Anyway I soon clubbed you and you were out like a light.

Starling poised himself in front of John, on the monolithic stability of his legs. 'You think it was just a coincidence that those circus hypnotists were in town the night you vanished? Those wankers will do anything if you pay them enough. I remember him telling me what you said to that copper bloke, what was it? _Literally take your minds of things_? I rolled about laughing when I heard! You can be such an ironic bugger sometimes.'

The room was very much vacant of furniture, except of course the chair. John cast a quick look up at the ceiling, which he saw was made of railings. _Retractable _railings.

Starling followed his look, and smirked. 'Ah. Yes. You remember how these sorts of platforms work? They used to park their planes on this, and when they were ready to take them flying .. ' He drew out a small remote device from his pocket, and hit a circular black button. With eyes fixed unmovingly, John saw with a pounding heart, the railings begin to shift. Silently as he might, the day broadened as the entire ceiling drew back, narrow rays of early evening light falling down on them from the dusky bowl of the sky. He was exposed. ' .. they'd do that.'

'We just need to wait now, doctor. I'm predicting the moon should hit right about there,' He pointed to a patch of the sky, then slid somewhat closer to John's face, a wicked grin spreading. 'Your friend should be here by then. Thats good, you'll need something to _eat_.'

Without hesitation, John spat blood into Starling's face.


	23. Aspirations of a killer

'Keep the change.'

Pushing a handful of uncounted notes at the driver, Sherlock shot out of the taxi. Like the wind he ran, and would keep running until he reached the entrance. Cure, his honest soul was fretted by the word given against a true friend. In truth it was the only flimsy blip of a plan he had just now - find Starling, force the other cure out of him and issue it to John. Immediately.

Stood before him was the broad, dark and hauntingly quiet base of operations, with all military installations attached. In his hand was a torch, and when Sherlock shone it on the towering double doors, he saw one to be unlocked. It was then firmly decided, they were here.

The torch went off, now was the time to blend into the darkness of the dimly lit place. He rose, and began to walk toward the door. Here was a contrast to earlier, Sherlock was not wistful. He controlled any impulses toward plasticity, and with that, there leaped in him such an impulse of roguish gallantry he could never resist. Opening the door a crack, he turned his head left-to-right, and, stepped in. He perceived a long corridor at range, and his eyes were drawn to a more bolder source of light coming from another, more narrow corridor.

And so continued the tedious treck, entering into new hallways and rooms and stairwells, it would be a short while before he arrived anywhere. However, his bat-like hearing soon picked up a small sound through the silence, and he followed it. Slowly and deliberatly, down a short iron staircase that lead into an alarmingly bright room.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes against the light, and touched inside his pocket for his gun. Though, he felt something else and frowned. He did not take it from his pocket, but rather squeezed and fondled it in his palm until he realised what it was.

Small, cold and attached to a slim chain. Sighing irritably, he found that he had accidentally left Mycroft's whistle in his pocket. Dropping it and drawing out his gun, he quickly forgot about it.

Scoping the room while cautiously treading down each step, Sherlock glanced at range and saw many objects - syringes, tubes, bunsen burners, chemical beakers and scopes of all sizes. It was a lab, and not one that was finished with either. There were photos of John littered about the centre desk, ones from his army days - such as the framed shot of him stood amoungst fellow soliders - and candid ones that were more recent. This was clearly where Starling had been conducting his research.

But that was not what caught Sherlock's breath in his throat.

Under the painfully bright lights, there were eight bodies lay along the floor. All dead, and all alligned perfectly straight. Such as in military formation, and that was not all that was military about them. They were all young men - all dressed in British camoulage and their hair cut into short, back and sides.

'My god.'

Sherlock lowered the gun to his side, slowly treading at the foot of the bodies. A certain lack of resolution seemed to pervade the air as he saw that the corpses had been kept pristine. The air in the room was cold, and he could see that their boots had been carefully buffed. Eight. Young. Male. Dead a minimum of two weeks.

The eight missing people.

'Darling, aren't they?'

Sherlock spun on his heel, raising the gun fast with both hands at the handle. He had been joined by Starling, who was stood at the top of the stairs and, loungingly, was proceeding to walk his way down.

He continued, 'Tragic, though. I never could get the formula right for them, no matter how hard I tried. It seems my hopes of creating chemical Lycanthropy were dashed along with my little shanty lab.'

Holding the gun fixedly on Starling, Sherlock demanded. 'Where is John?'

'Doctor Watson? He's fine. Well. Maybe a little worse for .. _were_.' He chuckled. 'Sorry, terrible pun.'

'The moon isn't out. He hasn't changed.'

'_Yet_.'

Side-stepping around the bodies as the sargeant furthured into the chilled room, Sherlock's brow knitted together, taking a deep breath and speaking with perfect simplicity. 'So this is it. Your new torture chamber.'

'Anything sounds bad when you say it like that, Sherls.'

'How did you create a solution that would induce a werewolf transformation?'

There was an interval of silence where Starling pursed his lips and glanced at the ground, then looked back at Sherlock. 'I'd failed at re-creating the second dose for him, so all I could do was bite him and hope for results. And boy did I get them.'

Sherlock's face sank, 'Bite him.' A realisation dawned on his face, setting the gun more strict on it's target. ' .. You're a werewolf.'

'We'd destroyed my progress, and I'd been trying for so long to get back on track.' Starling explained, somewhat wistfully. 'Beforehand I'd been practicing on myself with .. results. I'd tried to bite the others but .. I'd get a little carried away unfortunately. Wolf hunger and all that. The ones I'd gotten to experiment on died too, it seemed I wasn't destined to make it again. But I had to be careful with John - he was the last trace of my lost work. The only one I knew still worked.'

'And you made a cure to use on yourself whenever you wanted.'

Starling threw his head back and laughed, 'Oh my god you are _ridiculous_! My army needs their leader, I never want to cure myself of such power.' Slyly, he added on. 'Besides, there is no cure.'

'Yes there is.' With grim faced determination, Sherlock thrust the gun at him. 'What is the cure? _Tell me_!'

'No _chemical_ cure, Sherls.' He said, shaking his head smilingly. 'It's so simple, kill the wolf that bit you. The only way you can restore your little John Watson, is by killing me.'

'Why am I even hesitating?'

'Does that gun have a silver bullet?' Starling's smirk deepened as he saw Sherlock's aim waver, and ultimately, lower. 'Didn't think so.'

Watching him, Starling felt, that through all this playful commotion, he was dispelling from himself all verses of dread instilled into his mind. Although he knew his plan was rapidly falling, Sherlock was making a supreme effort, bracing himself against his own weakness. The sargeant approached him a little closer, voice light with the comedy of human life. 'Now come on, my bad wolf is going to need feeding.'

With that, he lunged on Sherlock with a strength that was inhuman. Sherlock's cry, both of surprise and distress, rung out through the silent corridors.

* * *

><p>In all the varying moods, changeful and caressing as the waves of the sea, there lay a hidden menace of question. All this languor of atmosphere and light, in which things seemed to lose their substance and reality, John had held his tongue, and temper, well. But for how long?<p>

He hung lamely forward in the chair, his posture having lost all rigidity. Starling had left, but not before offering him another sly punch. Blood dripped, from his chin to the front of his clothes. It was all he could taste, and every now and then he turned his head and spat. John didn't want to taste blood, because when he did, he wanted badly to taste someone else's.

A sound, a ring, suddenly caught his sensitive ear. Instantly, he slipped into stunned silence as the subtle perfume of violence reached the room, exposed to the near night above. He sat, jaw-hung and wild eyed. A kind of torpor crept over him.

'_Sh-Sherlock_?'

Little by little, he lost consciousness of time and place. Something, not quite rage, was creeping over him. The overwhelmed doctor looked wildly about the room with an infinite weariness. As Sherlock's long, distant cry became more and more present to his ears, an inexpressible sense of discontent, of discomfort, of solitude and emptiness, came over him. Giving him a burst of monstrous strength, and with a shrill yell he broke his arms apart - tearing the ropes that binded him.

The moment he realised what he had done, John held his breath until his chest was fit to burst, and choked it out in a weakly produced cry. Tortured by aspirations of a killer, and abhorring pain both by nature and the calamitous event, he was vulnerable on every side, accessible to pain at every point.

Still, he gathered himself. And ran.


	24. Look

**AN:** I'd meant to update yesterday sorry sorry :D

* * *

><p>There was no safety.<p>

At least that was the feeling that dominated his heart. John followed the sound of Sherlock's cries, running so hard he lost track of his breathing. His feet barely touching the ground, he was practically flying. Flight, it seemed, had for the moment quietened the demands of that other feebly struggling personality which was beginning to insinuate itself into his consciousness, which had broken in and taken possession of his body.

The whole base was a shadow-shrounded maze, and John found himself turning many corners. A sense of dread filled him as he thought he had lost Sherlock's track, when suddenly, at one particular turning he collided _smack_ into a body that was running in the opposed direction.

'Sherlock!'

'_For god's sake don't stop running_!'

Sherlock caught him by the wrist, and pulled him in his wake. Never had John felt such a strange collision of happiness, and soul-churning horror. Happiness, for Sherlock had come for him, and horror for that very same reason. John had given himself to Starling so that Sherlock would stay out of harm, and his friend had gone and thrown himself back in the lion's pit. Or wolf's pit. Home was not safe anymore, he felt that conviction - dragging hard on his chains.

They came to a sudden standstill after running for what seemed like forever, and they both collapsed in the shadow of a black brick wall to catch their breath. John was perfectly still, absorbedly listening, and when not sensing any attacker, he asked Sherlock;

'What are we running from?'

Utterly motionless with his face slightly turned up, he answered. 'A very bad man.'

'Well, I think we lost him.' John uttered, and then burst into a kind of frenzy. 'Wait, Sherlock - what are you doing here?'

'Sightseeing!' He snapped in his same sarcastic humour. Never a time, never a place. 'You didn't think I'd let Starling win _that_ easily, did you?'

'_You pillock_! The whole point of me coming here was to get you you out of danger! Now you'll probably get killed or _worse_!'

John snapped at him, but finished with a brief glance, and a small shadowy smile. He knew Sherlock, and that was his way of telling him he had come to save him. Letting the last words hang in the moment, he quietly added. ' ... Thank you though.'

Falteringly, Sherlock's eyes dropped on the ground. With one swift dexterous movement, he stood fully and composed himself as much he could. He still felt somewhat frazzled, having only escaped Starling's attack by the skin of his teeth. It was a damn lucky getaway. 'Yes, well .. ' He lightly coughed, with only a brief glance to John's face. ' .. Don't thank me yet.'

Nodding, John drew his sleeve over his bloodied nose and grimaced. Still sensitive from the beatings, and the lashings too. They burned deep in his back, red raw and having wept the back of his cardigan a new tone of red. Though, as he turned his eyes up at the windows that stretched the full vertical length of the wall, the pupils in his eyes shrank and his face paled.

'Sherlock.' With cold horror, he raised a shaky finger. 'Sherlock_ - look_!'

Behind the window, high in the sky - was a newly risen full moon.


	25. A monster

'_Quickly_!'

A just as cold lucidity kept Sherlock a step ahead, tearing off his coat and bundling it over John's head. Keeping him low, and tightly in the wall shadow. It did little against the light, that was quickly invading it. Sherlock turned his face up at the large moon, shining in full lustre. No doubt it had fallen on John's skin - and damn him for being so absent, he was afraid to speak after some moments had passed. Afraid that something slavering and deadly had taken John's place beneath his coat.

A small voice broke in, muffled from the underneith. ' .. Sherlock?'

Sherlock did not speak, but dared at least breath. Keeping his eye on the sky.

Timidly, it added. 'What's happening?'

His arms remained around the covered doctor, holding him as though he could shield him. Sherlock eyed the area infront vacantly for a moment, and, following rather his own curious thoughts than seeking any light on this somewhat vague situation, he uttered. ' .. Nothing.'

He could hear John breathing. Long, low, quiet, unhastening - the miracle of calm.

'_Exactly_ nothing. I'm .. not changing.'

That much was true - John had been exposed to moonlight and was still himself. While out of the rather broad bemusement of his face, Sherlock remained in his position of ward. A man is changed by the gravitational pull of the moon when it is full, specifically targeting the mutation. It is this activation, that kicked the wolf. Though breathlessly thankful, it made no sense for John not to change.

'Not yet.'

The whisper came from behind and there was barely time to react, the two feeling a quick tremor as Starling - freshly characterized by a quickness, lightness and nimble movement - turned sharply onto Sherlock. In a startling movement, he laid his hands on him and tore him from John. Falling onto all fours on impact, the set, stricken face of John let the coat fall from him and turned his face up, seeing in only a few short seconds, Starling forcibly take Sherlock furthur into the room. A more illuminated part of the room.

Hard faced, John slowly rose to his feet.

'You have to give it a minute, Watson!' He called back to him, resorting to old methods and holding the struggling Sherlock by his hair. 'Delay mechanism I just couldn't skate around, sorry about that. Call it an .. unfortunate side effect. Take me, for example. _Still_ the handsome bastard I was five minutes ago!'

_Five minutes._

'Why don't you join us out here, doctor? The moon's lovely tonight.'

'_No John! You'll aggrivate the mutation - stay out of the light_!' Sherlock burst in, face twisted in winces from where Starling was pulling his hair. This did nothing to help, and Sherlock sharply gasped as the sargeant yanked his head right back.

'Doctor, I swear if you don't come out on the count three, I'll tear his head off.'

Sherlock protested. 'John__ d_on't_!'

'One .._ two_... '

Gloomily debating within himself, John stepped out out of the narrow shadow and started towards them in a kind of walking reverie. Dust to dust it looked to be. Living in thought, John stopped a few feet off from Starling and his hostage, glanced up at the pale dial of the moon, then returned his look - one of unwavering antipathy, to his former peer.  
>Starling smirked. 'Feeling dizzy yet?'<p>

'Let him go.'

'I suppose that would be the kinder thing to do, considering what he's about to witness. Give him a running head start, eh?'

John repeated. 'Let him go. Now.'

The changes, none the less, and in spite of its subtleness, were beginning to take shape and consistency. Starling's eyes began to spark a yellow lightning, his face becoming increasingly more haggard. He had no intention of letting Sherlock go, not now. The man himself, breathing, and thinking, began to identify the area, though not in quite so formidable a fashion as might have summed up. With the distraction, he took the opportunity to swing his leg and jab Starling hard in the knee.

Snarling in pain, he released Sherlock and bent, to cradle his injury. Immediately, Sherlock scrambled to his feet and ran, pulling John with him. They ran frantically from the large, open room, into a corridor, through bedroom barracks and arrived into a lavishly decorated dining area. He dropped the doctor's wrist - leaving him to stand alone and motionless. Heart pounding, he pressed his lips together and considered, while Sherlock peered out of the next door, the pupils of his eyes slowly contracting and expanding as he gazed down black vacant gloom; past the dim louring presence.

He said aloud. 'We need to find the armoury.'

'Sherlock, kill me.'

Pausing, the named turned from the door and faced John. 'What?'

'Please.'

This had an awakening effect. Shaking his head, Sherlock extended his arms and held John's shoulders at length. 'There is no need to talk like that.'

'Yes there_ is_!' Yanking himself from Sherlock's hands, his whole person proclaimed desperation. Something tragic and heroic seemed to rise in him and, catching his eye-light, Sherlock perceived a tear. 'I'm going to turn into a monster. _A monster, Sherlock_! I don't know when but .. but it's not long. I can't let someone else die because of me ... ' He blinked, and that tear fell. ' ... I can't.'

There was a moment of silent staring, before both John and Sherlock were startled by a distant howl.


	26. The creature

'Oh god, it's Starling.'

Sherlock was already cautiously glancing around, slowly nodding. 'Yes. Changed by the sounds of it.'

In spite of his own manner, he did not attempt the slightest explanation. And still more mulish he was to find his own questions, wonderings, reproaches, dying away unuttered in the atmosphere of silentness with which they had become surrounded. The attitude of the doctor indicated deep self-sustaint, and a tension for having it wounded. His head was tilted slightly back, nostrils twitching and ears alert. He began to feel the tightening pressure of that chain, with which he was heavily bound.

'He's coming.' John said.

'That much I expected.' He turned his head slowly on John, who had not broken his trance. 'You can hear him?'

'Smell him, too.' Though his voice was quite passive, when he turned his eyes to Sherlock he could see they were filled with tears. Dropping his voice a tone more grim, John abandoned himself to the weight of his misery, prostrate as a man who had no hope of salvation. 'Sherlock, run. Now. I mean it.'

'I've not washed my hands of you yet.'

'Okay, _okay_. So, I'll just let you stick around so Starling can kill you. It's you he's going to go for, Sherlock, 'cause you're the only thing here vaguely resembling normal. You can't fight him off!' John laughed mournfully, tears staining his face. 'Great, _brilliant_. First my girlfriend, now my best mate. _Fantastic_!'

Sherlock could see that John's temperament was becoming more and more drastic, through no fault of his own. 'For god's sake - all these frets and none of them for yourself. If you'd just stop caring so much for _one_ minute .. '

'Someone has to!'

' .. I could tell you there's still hope. We _must_ kill Starling.'

Met with an important look, he could feel John accusing him. 'Don't tempt me.'

'_Don't you see_? He bit you. When he dies, your Lycanthropy will die with him.' Sherlock explained to him, his hands animating his words.

In his eyes of the restless and longing, John appeared to be unreliable to himself, given to haphazard whimsies in these dealings. 'Where's the science in that?'

'We're dealing with werewolves. Where's the science in any of it?'

Looking defeated, John looked just about ready to hear him out. 'Alright. How do you plan on ... _oh_, oh god .. _arghh_!'

It was starting. That then he was weakened, unable to support himself and falling on his knees. The swift coming of the transformation broke into John's sentence effectively, making him double over. He collapsed, then turned onto his back and began to writhe. Madly caught up in the moment, Sherlock sprang. Every instant was precious where wild attacks were concerned, and yet he had no idea what he could do. Standing over the gasping John, he looked wildly helpless.

'John!'

'_Shoot me, just shoot me_!'

The lying figure of John grasped the neckline of his shirt as he hyperventilated. A tumult of painful convulsion occured inside him, and a faint sickness came over him, letting grit his teeth and cry as his body took on the change. A gleam of realizing fear broke into his already benighted soul, and when his eyes shot open - they stared wide at the ceiling, white and pupiless. His body continued to violently shake, arching his back and kicking his legs only to a small degree. The process was quite contained.

Strangely shaken, Sherlock had already taken a few steps back. He sensed his gun, waiting in his pocket, but still he refrained from using it on John. No matter how many times the man begged, he couldn't. He just couldn't.

John's body started wildly as a sharp and sudden spasm of pain entreated him, he tensed and his arms threw themselves up to his head as he cried out. His clothes, they began to tear as his person grew and bent, fixing itself onto all fours. The way he was suddenly silent - voiceless - only encouraged Sherlock's fear, and his face went greasy white, feeling his back meet with the wall. Soon, very soon, John's transformation neared completion.

' .. J-John? John Watson?'

There was no answer, as the creature that had replaced John gingerly began to raise itself onto all four paws. It ruffled it's light hair, then arched and threw it's head back. Giving vent to a howl that was long, and mournful.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> Oh shush, you love these cliffhangers )


	27. Ghost

In his affecting situation, Sherlock felt his eyes flare wide at the the clearing outline of the newborn wolf. It moved the heart of a stoic man easily, fearing for both their lives. That begged the question - now that the creature's biochemistry had fully bonded into John's, did that mean that his human counterpart had dissolved completely? Was he dead, or sleeping?

John, or the beast that was John, was eyeing him from a few feet away. Sherlock softly tread sidewards, John doing the same in counter-direction. For a short time his vision seemed dulled and that part of his mind, trained to the quick analysis of sudden situations groped but feebly through a haze of shock to understand what had happened.

'Can you hear me?'

He breathed, but thinly, as he saw the wolf lower and poise, letting out a low growl. Putting himself in a state of balance and tensing himself on his front paws, he looked ready to attack Sherlock.

' .. John?'

He could not repress a start as he saw John's teeth, fully bared as he growled harder. Regardless of his supreme effort, when the wolf suddenly leapt into violent force Sherlock threw himself out of way of the attack. Once more the enigmatical aspects of his character occupied him, crowding in upon him tumultuously, persistently. But he had the strength of mind to co-ordinate them, to attack them one by one, with singular lucidity. The deeper he went in his analysis the more lucid became the situation. Catching his breath, he turned to look over his shoulder while lay flat on his front. There John, and another darker, more haggard looking werewolf, were engaged in fierce brawl.

The realisation brought slight ease, as now Sherlock knew that John had not meant to attack him. Starling had been behind him, going unseen with the full intention of savaging Sherlock. He turned over onto his back, evidently struck at the sight of the two wolves furiously tearing into each other.

Though a ghost, Sherlock knew John was still there. His wolf had the presence of mind to protect him - he _had_ to be.

However, when Sherlock raised his head, he could see that John was rigid, and though his speed was incredible, he bore a limp. It bewildered Sherlock, gravely thinking his earlier wounds would not work in his favour. He was still weak, and when Starling batted for him once again, he lamely stumbled before furiously raising himself on his hind legs and crashing down on the enemy. It was like watching him struggle against a great gust of wind.

Eager to do something, Sherlock struggled. If he intervened, he would be killed. If he did not intervene, John would be killed. He turned his head slowly about himself, revealing eyes that were staring more desperately. He was what could be called, stuck. Then, like lightning, something hit him. Suddenly conspicuous in his pocket, Sherlock dug and once again, pulled out Mycroft's whistle.

He held it upto his face. The hint of a crack down the off-centre sent his mind into an explosion of ideas.

_Silver._

With only that thought, he got up and ran from the room with extreme urgency. Leaving the two wolves locked in battle, and John growing weaker by the minute.


	28. Plan B

**AN:** Confesshunz! I've never really written a wolf scrap before now, so please bear with me ^^;

* * *

><p>Sherlock had, during that time, broke into the fastest run he could accomplish. Abandoning his coat for speed and gripping the whistle readily, the chin hitting his wrist. Gracious heaven, let him get there and back in time. Encouraging his sprinting legs faster, he tore through the barracks, through the halls. The clockwork plan that was coming together in his head required something more than his handgun. No, he needed something with a little more <em>boom<em>.

Failing that, there was Plan B ...

* * *

><p>Death and distraction, this was too much.<p>

The wolven Starling awoke to new fury and grappled with John, snarling through his fangs eyes locked on the target. He overpowered him for a moment, holding him down and pushing his paw hard up against his throat as if to choke him.

Confessed to a heavy blow, John struggled against him with a look of contempt in his eyes: it irritated him almost to madness; breaking from the feeble arms of rationality into distressed rage. He threw Starling off, and poised. But the enemy had his nose raised in the air, the stimulus kicking in. He could sense it - fresh blood, from a young human man. Not far, possibly a few feet worth of running. This response caused Starling to lose interest in John, and pursue the track with his nose on the ground.

But John was vigilant, catching a hold of his footing and careful to always move whenever Starling did. The treacherous sargeant was challenged by the doctor, who still contained shards of his human self. As heaven was his witness, he would defeat him and flee. Even though he knew he could never see Sherlock past tonight, or any human being for that matter, he would save his life this one last time. For ever honoured be the sacred drop of humanity; the angel of mercy shall record its source, and the soul from whence it sprang shall be forever the werewolf.

His fury heightened by this challenge, Starling enquired a hard lunge but missed as John moved. Angrily knashing, thirsty for blood, he went for him a second time and succeeded, pinning John onto his back with his two front paws. The doctor looked up at the mercenary's face as he tried to tear at him, with both fear and rage as he struggled to keep him away. He was honourless, with no emotion to his heart of dust. Bringing fear and frustration, all for his momentary glories. Determined, John struck his front arms free but was slow, Starling managing a swift bite into the nape of his neck. He was motionless for a moment, squirming and whimpering from the burning sensation as a dog would under pain.

Bursting with vigour, the moment would stop Starling. He proceeded, striking back against him with violence and throwing his entire body against a wall. Raging mad and overpowered by his own strength, he moved in for the kill.

'_Starling_!'

Sherlock's voice rang out from the entrance of the grand area, and with a sharp eye Starling cut a look over his back. John did not, and remained lay on his side. Chest slowly rising and falling, his neck bleeding into his fur.

Scarecely breathing, Sherlock looked from John to Starling, who was slowly prowly near him. Grabbing his newly attained hunting rifle, he swiftly raised it and hitched it into aim. One chance. Just one chance for this plan to work, and he only prayed his lously shooting skills would not interfere.

As he consulted the trigger, Starling suddenly lunged.

There was aloud rap and an almighty blow - as the bullet, or several tiny items posing as bullets, hit the wall. The shot had failed, and Sherlock had missed.

John, fatigued and tired from such fighting, fluttered his eyes open. There was Sherlock but a few feet away, his smoking rifle dropped and Starling rushing onto him. The man cried out in surprise, and though terrified at the furious appearance of this monster, he tried feverishly to throw him off. Receiving enough generous hostility, Sherlock decided to act. Flinching for what could be his death, he purposely position his leg to kick Starling - and screamed out as he felt fangs sinking into his calf.

It took less than a minute for him to black out.


	29. Insanity

Pale and almost lifeless. The volatile flight very slightly revived Sherlock and his ears only heard what was said between them. He lay flat on the ground, one leg bent under him and the other - soaked through with blood that continued to rush - flexed our straight. Receiving more excruciating smarting and aches from the effects of the bite, which he still continued to suffer under, and too under slight fits of insanity. His eyes rolled back and lids fell, his head limp on the ground as his panting slowed, then stopped.

_'What in God's name happened here?'_

_'Quick, get his legs. And be careful.'_

_'Sherlock, speak to me!'_


	30. Peppermints

It took almost two days for Sherlock's consciousness to return.

The night began to decline into very early morning; so early it was still dark outside. For a short amount of time, his forehead was gently dabbed with a cool flannel by a kind nurse. Slowly, the colour returned to his sickly white face, an observation made by Mycroft - who was sat quietly at his little brother's bedside. The moment he had gotten the phone call, a car and ambulance were ordered out to Northwood. With excellent timing too, for if Sherlock had been left just an hour or so longer he would have perished from one cause or the other. Either by bleeding to death, or blood poisoning. Disturbed by a stirring strength, whose appearance spoke of much consequence, something in him took him in favour and began to pull Sherlock awake.

Mycroft smiled and nodded at the attendant, dismissing her. 'Thank you, nurse.'

The spirit had temporarily left Sherlock, and thus he vaguely observed his surroundings. White walls, white bedsheets, a drip connected to his left hand - clearly a hospital. He had little feeling in his wounded leg, but sensed bandaging. It took a short moment for his memory of the incident to return, and he drew in a short, exclaiming breath.

'Ah ah, don't excite yourself.' His brother said upon seeing his more animated look. 'Can't have you overexerting, not when we've just this minute managed to pinch some colour back into your cheeks.'

Sherlock's eyes turned over the room, breathlessly uttering, 'It's a hospital .. '

'Yes, well done.'

Shelter that night beneath Mycroft's hospitable watch earned a short frown from Sherlock, but ceased when he was distracted from the sunken comfort of the bed by a gentle smarting of his leg. He was too weak to inspect, so merely lay back. His eyes barely adjusting to the dimly lit room. Mycroft, frowning slightly himself, leaned forward in his seat and laced his fingers together over his lap. 'He's dead, Sherlock.' He said, plain as Jane.

Immediately, Sherlock looked at him. 'Who? Who's dead?'

'Sargeant Leonard Starling, pronounced dead on arrival. Silver poisoning. You almost quick to follow, might I add.' He said in undertone. ' .. But I dare say you knew what you were doing.'

Lingering a moment, he was a striking example of meek happiness, before urgently pressing on. 'Is John alive?'

'It seems you simply won't stop until you've given our mother a heart attack.' Mycroft commented, as though he had not heard the question. From the bedside cabinet - which was surprisingly littered with a number of Get Well Soon cards - he produced a small, green and white decorated bag. 'Mummy sends peppermints, she knows how much you loved them.'

Sherlock grumbled. 'Hate peppermints.'

Though his attentions were serious, and Mycroft supposed he should explain his real situation to him. And with this grave look from his older brother, Sherlock's eyes flared and he tried to sit up, insisting upon it even though he winced as he gingerly tried to sit his body; the freshish stitching on his leg smarting as he moved.

'For goodness sake, don't do that.'

'Why won't you tell me where John is?'

'I know everything, Sherlock.' Person and manner were tired from the lack of rest, having sat at Sherlock's vigil the entire night. Mycroft's hand found his mouth as he yawned, eyes focusing on his increasingly distressed little brother. 'Starling's experiments, the eight missing people .. and the situation with John. I know about it all.'

'I did not ask you to get involved, Mycroft.' Sherlock possessed too much of the spirit of intrigue to remain long without adding, his voice a breathless mutter. 'How did you find the Northwood base, _who_ called you?'

'Who do you think?'

A third voice rose out of nowhere, and Sherlock's eyes lamely turned. There, stood in the doorway in striped pyjamas with a layer of gauze wrapped around his neck, was John.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> Don't fret m'dears, I shall be revealing exactly how Starling was beat. :)


	31. Human biology

For a moment, they were unresponsive. Sherlock lay back, silent, his arms along his sides, and his eyes, moist and bright, fixed upon the doorway where John stood. _Stood_, on two legs. And spoke, in his settled voice. Very sedate, and very human. Sensing his leave appropriate, Mycroft stood. 'I'll leave you both to it.' He reached for his umbrella, which was hung on the back of the chair, and began to exit the room.

Though stopping just at the door, he looked back at Sherlock a final time and performed a solemn increase of a smile. 'It's good to see you pulling through, brother-mine.'

Sherlock simply rolled his eyes and looked away, which prompted Mycroft to glance at John, smile in a similar fashion, then finally leave. Pressing the door closed behind him. With their third party gone, it left just the two of them.

John lowered his head, 'Be nice to him, he helped us.'

'So I've been hearing.' He sounded distant, and did not turn his head. 'Am I right in thinking the first person you called was _Mycroft_?'

'I had to call someone.'

'And you told him everything?'

'Well .. yeah. What was I meant to say - that we'd both been attacked by mad dogs?'

Sherlock turned, and looked over John, who had taken Mycroft's previous seat at his side. He replied with cool humour, 'Not exactly a lie though, is it?'

A beat, and they both broke into quiet chuckling. While they were both relieved, and enjoying some degree of comfort in this consoling meet, John began to quieten. Sherlock sensed his timidity, and waited for questions to advance.

'I heard you'd been poisoned.'

He slowly nodded along. 'Silver poisoning, yes.'

'But how .. ?'

Sherlock interrupted him with a deep sigh, and prepared to elaborate. His voice having at least some strength. 'Silver kills werewolves for the same reason Kryptonite kills Superman. Both are elements that are intrinsically tied to the genetic blueprint of the person they are affecting. Silver has dormant radioactive elements that, when introduced into the body of a werewolf, targets the mutation. It is this activation, this charged radiation, that poisons the werewolf's body, causing it to die.'

He continued. 'Of course, silver is toxic to human biology as well.'

'But .. I don't understand how this fits in anywhere. You had a gun, you shot at him, you _missed_ ... ' John's brow clouded over, struggling to fit together the vague pieces of his memory.

'Hm, yes. Never have been much of a shot.' Sherlock made a small acknowledging noise from his throat. 'Did you not even notice that I'd vanished from the room? Well, you were fighting for your life in a body that wasn't your own, so I don't suppose you would have.'

'I did.'

Silence, and John concluded.

'I was stopping him from going after you.'

Sherlock looked uncertain, as though not sure what his engagements were; but his perplexity cleared; and he looked tight-lipped at John. He was grateful, of course, having longed for a companion like him all his life. It was the only time heaven had been good to him, and too, it seemed .. right. 'Yes, well .. I had a back-up plan, should my first fail. In my pocket I found that I still had Mycroft's dog whistle, made of _silver_. I knew that if I left you and Starling fighting he would kill you, so I set out looking for two things. The first, which I had been looking for already, the armoury. It was there I obtained the rifle.'

He replied to himself in the same explaining tones. 'The second, Starling's lab. There I was able to dismantle the whistle and load the gun with bits of broken silver. With the leftover shards, I quickly melted them, made a diluted solution and injected myself.'

A bright realisation broke upon John's face. 'So that if you couldn't shoot him, and he attacked you, he .. '

' .. Would be poisoned by the silver in my blood, yes. And with him dead, you were cured.'

John looked proudly over his friend, a sincere delight in his heart. 'Well, it is nice. Being back in this old thing.' He bumped his chest with his fist, tactfully indicating his own body. It was then he turned a deep and sincere stare on Sherlock, a small smile on his face that hid an infinate amount of respect and appreciation. 'Sherlock, I don't know where to begin. First you put up with my denial and my aggro, then you stick your neck out trying to help me - and _then_, you put your life on the line just to save mine.'

'It's not like you haven't done the same for me.'

'No, I'm just trying to say .. ' John lapsed back into a voice that was both grave and kind. ' ... Thanks mate.'

With perfect simplicity, Sherlock nodded and smiled. His aspect visable changed, a sort of glow briefly dyed his pale features. These forgotten sensations rose up once more out of the depths of his consciousness, and, for an instant, a wave of the old warmth swept over his soul. Now, this miserable ordeal had ended. Sargeant Leonard Starling was dead, and it was all over.

'Quite alright.' He gently replied after a brief pause.

Then, loudly sighing, Sherlock lifted a feeble hand and waved it in the directon of the candy bag he had refused from Mycroft. 'Pass me a peppermint, won't you. I love those.'


	32. Fin

'Hello loves!'

The sunny dispositioned landlandy dashed out from the doorway to meet the parked hackney cab, where John was easing a wheelchair-bound Sherlock out the back. She threw her arms around John first, then Sherlock, who meekly patted her back in return. A forestalled smile, so subtle and small, hinted his face.

'Mrs Hudson.'

'Aw will ya look at you, bless.' She touched his shoulder and glanced along his leg, bandaged to the knee. 'I heard you got into a bit of a tangle.'

John dropped his head and raised his brows. 'You could call it that.'

'Ohh, what happened to your neck there, doctor? That looks like it was nasty.'

His reaction was delayed, and, with something of an open-mouthed expression, John quickly searched for an answer. For such a furious bite attack, he had emerged almost completely unscatched. No veins punctured, no muscles torn - it was as good as a fickle skin penetration. 'Oh, um. Nothing to worry about just um, dog bite.'

The woman nodded with gentle acquiescence. 'You want to get that looked at. Don't want you getting anything now, do we?'

John glanced at Sherlock, and they exchanged mutual looks. 'God forbid.'

In advance, the doctor approached Sherlock's wheelchair from behind, but before he could even rest his hands in the handles, Mrs Hudson once again broke into a flurry.

'Oh! Hold on a tic, love. I'll get you the ramp!'

* * *

><p>As it happened, John had been discharged from hospital days before, but had not returned home. He saw no point in returning without Sherlock - seeing as they had been dragged all the way out to Northwood and thus, were being treated at a Northwood hospital. Which was a bit of a way from Baker Street, and so for the remainder of that week, John had been stayed at a nearby bed and breakfast.<p>

With a final heave, the front wheels of the wheelchair touched down on the first floor landing. While John stopped a moment for breath, Sherlock's eyes beamed with secret fun.

'I rather enjoyed that.'

'I don't remember you ever helping _me _up the stairs when I had leg bother.' John chuntered in a meaningless fashion, as he searched in his pocket for the flat keys.

'_My _leg bother isn't psychosomatic.'

Pleasantly, he expressed a smile of cheerful acceptance then returned to his unlocking of the front door. 'Hey, you can borrow my walking stick when you're mobile again. I've still got it somewhere.'

Sherlock broke in with a dry snicker. 'I'll pass. Thanks.'

Letting his hand fall from the door knob, John eased the door open and pushed Sherlock inside. Immediately, there was a scampering sound of little paws as Gladstone, clean and slightly overfed - courtesy of Mrs Hudson, bounced from the living room sofa to the men. Whimpering with delight, he jumped about John's legs. Warmed by this reception, John said. '_Someone's_ happy to see us.'

'John.' Sherlock broke inbetween time. 'What became of Starling's body?'

'What?'

'His body. I want to know.'

Without wincing at the man's mention, John cooly replied. 'They've buried it, I suppose.'

'And his lab?'

John shifted at an angle, slantly facing more to him in a manner that was only slightly more addressive. Quietly, he resumed after a brief pause, apparently considering the general bearings of the matter. 'I'd been talking with your brother, and .. he's having the whole base destroyed. Lab and all.'

'As I thought.' Sherlock commented, eyes peering over his fingertips that were placed together. 'We have to hand it to Starling though, it was some feat.'

'What? Nearly getting you killed, putting us through sheer _hell_?' John replied, quickly and inevitably.

'Cracking Lycanthropy.'

'You sound like you admire him.'

Smiling, he regarded his doctor friend more intently. 'As a scientist, I suppose I do. But as a sane mind and body .. well.' He then waved his hand, as if tossing the matter to the winds. 'Still, he's not our problem anymore. He's dead and we can move on.'

Thus overshadowed, this was verily the concluding statement. John gently nodded in agreement, a nod of mingled dignitiy, before he glanced at the bull pup that was sat patiently at his feet. 'Well, we do still have _one_ problem.' He lifted the dog and bundled him into one arm. 'Noones shown up to claim this.'

A slow grin spread across John's face. 'Sherlock .. '

'No.'

'Aw, come on. He loves you.' His manner took a bright and playful turn as he raised Gladstone, setting their heads side-by-side and making a silly, sweet face. Sherlock watched, hard faced, as John lifted Gladstone's paw in a little wave. '_Love you, Sherlock. Yes I do_.'

'After everything we've been through, _you_ in particular, I would've thought you'd never want to see another dog again in your life.'

'Give Sherlock kisses, Gladstone.'

With that, John shoved the dog right into Sherlock's face and immediately, he was lavished in slobbery 'kisses'. Spluttering, he was unable to escape as the dog lapped at his cheek. He caved in prematurely, only able to resist for a short time.

'Alright_ alright_! We'll keep the bloody thing, just get it off!'

John brought the dog back into his own hold and ruffled the hair on the top of his head slightly. Watching Sherlock grimace and rub at his cheek with his sleeve, he found the whole scene better already. In all strength; and in spite of the mighty struggle by which they subdued, a deep feeling of peace blanked over. A short smile came over the doctor's rather calm face. One that bared the simplcity of his soul, with no false lights.

'For god's sake. I'll expect a damn good coffee for that, John.'

Things were already slipping back to normal.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> Thats a wrap! Thanks for reading :D


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